


Before he marries the sea

by cameliae



Series: Rivers are lost in the sea [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bickering, Established Relationship, Frottage, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jealous Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jealousy, Light Angst, M/M, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Siren Jaskier | Dandelion, and pirates too, and they still don't fuck much to Jaskier dismay, because Geralt is still the sweetest himbo, but really really really light, kind of, no beta sorry guys, still a lot of bickering i told you, there is a kraken in here, there is still pining from Geralt, wow they really love each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:22:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24243499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cameliae/pseuds/cameliae
Summary: “Jaskier.” he growls.“Trust me. I have a plan!”“Somehow, I'm not relieved to hear that.”Jaskier licks his lips, then he makes sure that no one is looking at them. At last, he pushes himself against Geralt and kisses him, loud and amiably. Just a smooch, a press lips to lips, and Geralt misses that mouth the second it leaves him.“Trust me.” Jaskier repeats, with only a breath separating them, eyes half hidden behind his eyelids so, so bright and blue.And, obviously.Of fucking course.Geralt gives in.They need to find a giant octopus for a contract. Jaskier is thrilled. Geralt doesn't know how to fish an octopus. But then Jaskier starts to fucking flirt with three pirates, forcing Geralt to threaten them! Well, at least Roach is confortable. Love ensues! (hopefully)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Rivers are lost in the sea [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1724101
Comments: 20
Kudos: 271
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	Before he marries the sea

The scorching sun is high in the sky upon them, its rays peek through the leaves of the hundreds trees around the path they're crossing. It's hot – sure, not the sultry kind of hot that can't let anyone breathe without being completely drenched in sweat, but it's too hot nonetheless.

Jaskier already misses so much the sea they left behind this morning.

“It's too fucking hot, Geralt, and it's not even summer yet. Couldn't we have waited a little bit more in that town? I really liked that place. Maybe we  _shoud_ have waited when the sun went down, before starting to travel.” Jaskier complains, passing a hand through still wet hair. Then puffs, giving Geralt a look, “We could have stayed in the inn another day or two, I could have gained more money performing in the evening, the innkeeper seemed nice enough to give us something to eat while I entertained her customers, and we could have fucked all night long. You know, in a bed. With a bath afterwards.”

“Hm.” Geralt grunts, looking straight in front of him.

Jaskier huffs again, frowning down. Then a little smile blooms on his face, looking at the brown mare under him, and he starts cooing at Roach – actually, she seems to be in a good mood, so she neighs lightly, content, while receiving his cuddles.

Geralt lets him ride Roach because he's a golden hearted darling and knows that Jaskier's legs still hurts a little, after passing the whole morning in his Siren body, swimming around in the sea and kissing the soul out of Geralt. Everytime he gets his legs back, however, they seems to hurt less – but they still feel really unconfortable, they tremble and feel numb for more then one hour before setting in a slightly uneasy feeling. He's  _fine_ , he keeps on repeating that to Geralt every ten minutes or so, but, well, he's feeling better knowing that he shouldn't have to run behind him while the bastard is trotting on Roach. 

Jaskier, being a _magnanimous_ bard since childhood, he doesn't start to sprint while riding. Expecially because he's pretty sure that Roach won't listen to his orders, but lets Geralt think that Jaskier is just too good to get revenge on a fine day like this.

“It's  _hooot_ .” he says again, whining. 

Geralt rolls his eyes, “It's stupid to travel in the evening, you know that.”

“I  _do_ know that! But,” he clears his throat, and lowers his voice. Is he trying to sound seducing? Probably. “tomorrow would have been the perfect time. You know, just after sunrise: the sun would have not burnt our heads, and the air would have been enough chilly to let the path bearable. And we could have been  _reaaaally_ relaxed, after a very pleasant night spent into each others arms.” he stops, then shrugs and adds: “And into each others holes, I hope.” 

“ _Jaskier._ ”

“What? I'm not picky. They could have been any holes you prefered!”

He's saying the one and only truth, after all. He kind of wants Geralt's cock anywhere, he doesn't care  _where_ , as long as it's in  _him_ . And Jaskier was so,  _so_ close that morning, while they're wallowing in the ocean, to take a deep breath and disappear into the water in front of Geralt and blow him there, right there, with the little fishes swimming in his hair and between Geralt's thick thighs.

But Geralt kept on kissing him again and again, giving him no way to back out from his arms while his lips continued ravenous on his. He fell a little more in love with him, if possible, in that moment – but he regrets now not having take advantage of that situation.

Geralt sighs, pulling Roach's reins as he walks in front of them. Jaskier gifts himself the sight of his marvellous witchery bottom and he doesn't scream because it's not called for right now but he can't help it: he smiles like a completely hopeless fool in love thinking about that now that arse is  _his._ Oh Gods, the things he wants to do to that arse–

“You know, I'm almost thinking that you're running away from my arse, my lovely Witcher.”

Geralt snorts, “Am I?” says, bending his head to one side and staring at him in the eyes.

“A terrible thought, I must say. Terrible and unbelievable, because  _no one_ in their right mind would refuse _this_ ,” he smacks one side of his upthigh, because there's no way he stands up on Roach just to smack one of his arsecheeks for the sake of melodramatics. It gets the idea in the same way, indeed. “when I'm pratically  _begging_ to be romantically splitted in half.”

Geralt hums, rolls his eyes again and drops his gaze, but– yes, Jaskier can see it: his smile! It doesn't matter if Geralt is, actually, laughing at him, the most important thing is that Geralt is happy and content and relaxed. And, most of  _all_ , Geralt smile is precious.

“I'm  _serious_ , Geralt!” he exclaims, with an hand on his chest, where his heart is and beats so loud thanks to Geralt that he thinks is impossible, for the Witcher, to not hear it.

“Sure you are.”

He never,  _never_ in those twenty years in his company, suppressed what he always felt for Geralt, it's not in his nature, but since Geralt kissed him – he still can't fucking believe it – it's in his  _right_ singing out loud with his voice and his very body functions all his love. After all, knowing Geralt, passing five long and wonderful hours in the water kissing and not much else could very be the same as declaring on his knees his undying devotion towards him. So yeah, thank fuck if Jaskier couldn't be more happy than he actually is at the moment, even without the sex.

So, he's really happy, and he's pretty sure that Geralt can feel it like a cloud surrounding him, but... but he's hot, and not only in the good way. “I'm hot,” he repeats, for the third time, “and I'm starting to get bored too. When will we camp?”

“At sunset, as always.” Geralt breathes deeply through his nose, his patience probably wearing thin, even if doesn't seems like it. He still seems relaxed, ignoring his petulance.

“Too long. Uhm.” he sighs, caressing Roach's mane. “I'm gonna die of boredom. And arousal.”

“Hm hm.”

“I'm very sure that's a common thing, and Melitele helps me, Geralt, my ghost will haunt you down because it will surely be all your fault.”

“Hm hm.”

“I hate you.”

“Hm hm.”

“I will never let you fuck me if you won't do it now.”

“Hm hm.

“I'm gonna go live the rest of my life under the sea.”

Geralt looks at him again, frowning and with a twitch of his lips that Jaskier can't quite undestand its meaning. “What?”

Jaskier laughs, at that point, and throws him a knowing look, “So you  _were_ listening to me! I just wanted your attention, nothing of what I said it's true, so don't worry.”

He smiles again, and Jaskier melts under his fond golden gaze. “I always listen to you.”

“Ohw, my heart.” Jaskier is so fucking  _in love_ and he is gonna say it forevermore without being afraid of any kind of rejection! “Kiss me? Then I'll shut up, pinky promise.”

“Somehow, I know you are still telling lies.” There's obviously a smile in Geralt's voice, but sadly Jaskier can't see it when Geralt is still staring at the sunbathed path ahead of them.

“That is a risk you should take, my dear Witcher.”

And finally,  _finally_ , Geralt turns around and, with a light behind his magnificent and precious as gold eyes that makes Jaskier weak in the knees, leans over him and presses his lips – lips that still taste  _like him –_ on his. Jaskier inhales adoringly with his nose, pushing against him and almost falling off Roach, and Geralt can't quite hide a snort, while hugging him and putting him steady again on her saddle. 

Jaskier kisses him as long as Geralt wants, intertwining his tongue around his and breathing his same breath and caressing his face as if it's the most valuable things he has – and actually,  _all_ Geralt is the most important thing and person and everything he has, right before his lute.

“Happy?” Geralt murmurs, with only a hair of space between their mouths.

Jaskier nods, sighs contently again, and says: “Yes. Very. A very lot. I don't think exist a number high enough to fully represent how much happy I am.”

Geralt stares at him in the eyes for a long time, and Jaskier just lets himself drown in the liquid gold of Geralt irises. How could people think that his eyes are ugly? He can't fucking understand, are all of them blind and just Jaskier is able to see their beauty? He feels special, at least, but Geralt deserves so much from life–

In the end, Geralt gives him a little stroke on a cheek and return on walking. Roach neighs, nudges him lighly on his side and, with an adorable grunt, Geralt gives a little peck on her muzzle. Jaskier barely holds back a delighted squeak, at that sight.

They fall in a confortable silence, much to Jaskier dismay – but he pinky promises, so he'll  _try_ to keep quiet for a little while. He looks around, and he sees just trees upon trees, green leaves upon yellow leaves, and he almost starts to whine again. He follows the line that some pollen is doing in the air in front of him, and a bit of it lay softly on his bag attacked to his waist, and suddenly there's a  _distraction_ , right beside him.

Knowing that Geralt is enjoying the rare silence and not minding him at all, Jaskier puts an hand inside his bag and takes out Lady Maria's tiara. In the haze of yesterday's events, he did not pay enough attention on the object, having a very real reason to put his legs on his shoulder and run away from the Sirens as soon as possible – and later on, he was too much preoccupied with his fishy tail and with Geralt's kisses than studying their new, probably useless, and very much aestethically ugly object. Why Lady Maria wants it so bad is beyond his comprehension.

He turns it around between his free hands – thanks to Geralt that is taking Roach's reins – and looks at it for a whole minute, before getting bored again because– well, it's really nothing special: the finishings are chipped and also a bit rusty, the green stone crafted in the center of it is dull and – and Jaskier  _knows_ it, because he damn well studied and excelled for this kind of things too – surely it is not an emerald as it is trying so much to resemble. 

He holds back an indignant noise, because he can't fucking believe that he almost lose Geralt in the Sirens' hands and voices just for _this._ This terrible and horrible thing.

“What are you doing?” he hears Geralt ask, and he doesn't jolt at the sudden sound just because, for him, Geralt's voice is  _so_ soothing.

“Nothing.” he grumbles, “Studying. This thing has no value. At  _all._ ”

“Hm, don't care.”

“I  _know_ , I don't care either as long as Lady Maria still pays us in the end, but I can't really understand why she wants it so much. She does not seem stupid, so she probably already knows that it is not in a good shape after being so much time in the water. Well, when I found it it wasn't in the water, but it surely was before. Look, it's rusty, so it was wet at some point.”

“So?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier can pratically hear his uncaring, but he pays attention to Jaskier's words nonetheless and Jaskier,  _Gods_ , loves him so much. 

“So it's strange, that's all. There were way too many bags of gold,  _waaaay_ too many for just this useless thing.”

“That crown–”

“Tiara.” he corrects him, absentmindedly.

“–is, um,  _emotionally_ important to her. Remember what she said? Her mother always wore that on her head when she was alive.”

“True, but she also said that she could not care less about her parents and she just wanted the tiara for herself. And, that is the opposite of what you meant, my golden hearted Witcher.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt calls his name, and looks at him, “I know you are bored, but I don't care about this. I just want my pay, so we can go on with our life.”

“Understandable.” Jaskier nods, “We don't get involved, I know.” Geralt, now, sends him a very _very_ menacing stare that has totally no effect on Jaskier. “But,” he adds, and he starts to put that tiara upon his head, hoping that it won't tangle in his flawless hair, “I bet that on me even this kind of horrible piece of jewlery can be–”

He stops as soon as the tiara rests on his forehead, because suddenly he can't _fucking see anything anymore._ He widens his eyes, and he panics in the total blackness that surrounds him, with his hands in front of him trying to touch something, to understand what's going on and where the fuck he is – is he still on Roach? He can't guess if he is still sitting on her saddle or walking or _dead_ because he can't feel anything at _all_.

But then, something catches his eyes. In a moment of time, he is looking at a weeping woman on a cliff, and she is obviously and hearbreakingly in pain. She is giving him her back, so he can't see her face or anything else but– but Jaskier knows that hair, no one he has ever met – and he met _a lot_ of people – has that same shade, that blonde so clear and pure that can replace the foam of the sea, a shade so light that it reflects the sun like a broken mirror. Jaskier swallows the lump he feels in his throat, he feels like crying too and probably he does that, while walking on air towards her, against the wind that slaps him and moves her wonderful hair everywhere.

She sits on the edge of the cliff, she is touching her own legs, tangled uselessly under her body and keeps on weeping, desperately and Jaskier just wants to touch her, to confort her, to– to–

And then, he opens his eyes and what he sees are the sun and the trees and the leaves and Geralt's worried frown hovering above his face.

“Oh, hi.” he murmurs, and no, he's not on Roach anymore, as he feels the soft grass tickle his neck and the parts of his arms that are not covered by his chemise.

“What the fuck, Jaskier?” Geralt breathes, as if he was holding air in his lungs until now. The frown that wrinkles his forehead doesn't disappears even after Jaskier gives him a pat, saying that he is _obviously fine, Geralt, you can stop handling me as if I'm going to break as soon as you leave._

Well, that... that is probably true, but not in this case.

“I'm fine.” he repeats, giving him a reassurring smile while he tries to sit, “It was... yeah, a curious thing? Uhm, why am I not on Roach? Did she kicked me off?”

Geralt halts, hovering his hands near his arms but, sadly, doesn't touch him, “You _fell_ , Jasker. You started screaming like a banshee–”

“I _certainly_ not did that, Geralt, I am not _able_ to sound like a banshee, I have a melodious voice even during dreadful and not so tranquil times!” he snaps, outraged.

“You did. As I was saying, you started screaming and throwing your arms like a completely out of his mind idiot–”

Jaskier pouts. He knows that Geralt can never resist his pout. “Can you _please_ not linger in those useless details and get over it with the story?”

“I thought you liked when I talk.” Geralt says, smirking at him and Jaskier's rage dimms. Just a bit.

“Yes, and a very lot nonetheless. But I like more when you _praise_ me, and this is not the case. So. What happened?”

“Nothing else. You fell off Roach, and thank fuck I caught you, Jaskier, or half of your fucking body would have been completely broken.” Geralt's frown is always there, on his forehead, but Jaskier can see clearly, now, into his eyes, that he is worried no more. Again, something inside Jaskier melts – as always does, indeed – just thinking about how much Geralt cares for him

He dares not to say it, but Jaskier gives in in the thought of Geralt _loving_ him, even if he doesn't say it. There is no problem, after all. With him, Jaskier discovers that he can be very patient in this kind of things.

He doesn't know if he has another twenty years in his pocket that he can spend in waiting, but he very gladly use them for Geralt.

“Yeah, sorry. I guess I finally understand why Lady Maria wants the tiara, at least.” he murmurs, when he sees the still ugly but apparently not so useless object abandoned half a meter from him.

“I don't. It's not cursed, it's not anything magical or I would have known it before.” says Geralt, helping him stand. His legs don't hurt, and he feels fine more or less, but he lingers nonetheless in Geralt's touch just because. Just because _he can_.

Jaskier shrugs, getting near Roach and sinking his fingers in her mane. She rubs sweetly her muzzle on his chest and Jaskier cooes at her. “I do not know that either, but I don't care. It let me see... I saw my grandmother, I am sure of it. She is... not well, Geralt. She seems to be in so much pain, wherever she is.” he mumbles, his mouth almost completely covered in Roach's mane as he hugs her. “She is... somewhere near the sea. She is on a cliff, and she's crying so much, touching desperately her _legs._ I don't know what that means, but I am sure as fuck it's not something pleasant.”

“Hm.” Geralt hums, and he enhances his frown. “Well.” he adds, “Pay day can wait.”

“What? Geralt?” Jaskier blinks, and his eyes broadens as he sees Geralt turns back towards the coast. “Where are you going? Geralt! Answer me!”

“We go search for your grandmother. She needs help it seems, and I don't want that whatever she is causing her pain will happen to you too.” he grunts, not angrily but maybe just worried. Jaskier smiles, and he feels so loved.

“So... back to the coast?” he trotts beside him and entwines his arm with his, then gives a peck on his shoulder, uncaring of the smell on the armor. “Thank you.”

Geralt snorts again. But he looks at him with that fond gaze and light smile, and Jaskier feels himself brighten under his adoration. “Hm.”

They camped when the sun was not yet starting to go down, just because Jaskier was complaining _a lot more_ as his stomach grumbled with hunger. While Jaskier has the honor to give some apples to Roach and tie her on a tree not too far from their camp, Geralt lights a fire in the center of the little clearing they found and goes somewhere to hunt something to eat.

Jaskier sits in front of the fire, not too close or he would have totally melt on the spot, and waits.

He... he does not know how to feel. He's fine, he can walk normally now without his legs give out after a minute or so, and really, his mind is not tired or confused or anything of the sorts even after that, well, that vision. Is he having visions now? The tiara maybe is enchanted and it lets see the future to any person who has the _courage_ to wear it. But when Jaskier laid it upon Geralt's forehead – much to Geralt's dismay – nothing happened, and still the Witcher can't feel any sorts of spell on it. So. It is a complete mystery. And fuck if Jaskier is not gonna solve it!

But first, it is time for composing the song that is rummaging in his head since yesterday morning. He grabs that fantastic lute of his, puts his songbook posed on one knee, and strums.

“Hmmmm.” sings, without voice, just to get the right sound.

He writes some rhymes on his book, uncaring about the stains the ink is leaving on the skin of his pinky. The other hands is plicking the strings of the lute, filling the air around him with music. “– _He closed his amber eyes / and he fell in an enchanted slumber._ I am a fucking genius. I bet Valdo cannot even conceive such a refined rhyme. Ha! That useless shit.”

“No? It is not so _refined._ ” says Geralt, popping out of the woods.

“Oh, shut up, you brute!” he pouts, “You have no rights in this, my dear. You only know two words, basically: _hm_ , and _fuck_. I am surprised you even _know_ the definition of refined!”

He looks at Geralt as he sits beside him, two dead hares on one of his hand. “Don't pout. My vocabulary _improved_ since I met you.” he smiles, taking out a knife.

Jaskier blinks. “That– that is actually the most beautiful thing you could have said to me, like, ever. I am... I think I'm gonna cry.”

“Don't.”

He lays his lute carefully inside its open case, and the songbook in his bag. Then he puts his elbows on his knees and his face cradled in his hands, and stare intensely at Geralt while he skins both the hares, efficiently and in a so fucking sexy way. He follows with his curious eyes the lines on Geralt's exposed forearms, the scars and the swollen veins in relief. Jaskier blames the hunger, when he starts salivating.

“Wow, two hares, Geralt? Is this a party?” he asks, mostly to distract himself.

Geralt shrugs, “Just lucky. They were together.” says, and it is really, _reaaally_ wrong but his bloodied fingers are kind of arousing.

They eat while Jaskier hums the melody of his new ballad. Geralt keeps silent near, _so_ near him but with a kind smile on his lips and – and Jaskier is ready to swear it to every Gods, existent and not – it seems that he's moving slightly and lightly his head along the rhythm.

“Geralt...” Jaskier calls him, when they finish and their bedroll are sprawled under them.

Geralt bends his head, until his face hovers so close to his. His nose barely touches his, and Jaskier sighs contently. “Hm, yes?”

“Kiss me?” breaths Jaskier, and he can smell the smoke of the fire on his lips.

Jaskier... Jaskier always wants Geralt to kiss him first. He knows that he would not take the first step without a little push. He will not lie, at least not to himself, he does feel a bit sad about this – but he _knows_ Geralt, he has known him more than half his life, he saw him running away from Yennefer and Ciri in the same absurd way, and he ran away from him a lot of times in the past too, breaking his heart everytime. Nonetheless, Jaskier knows that Geralt is a good man, and he would never hurt him on purpose, expecially _now_ , he just... isn't used to be loved. He will show him that whenever he can, as he did with their friendship.

Hopefully, they have all the time in the world to learn together.

Geralt kisses him, pushes in his mouth and makes a grunt that Jaskier knows is a grunt of pleasure. Something in Jaskier shoulders leaves, as always happens whenever they kiss – he can't fucking help it, okay, he is _still_ afraid to be rejected, even after all of this.

Jaskier, then, without leaving his lips – on the contrary, he starts to _bite_ them, sucking his bottom lip and breathing in every pant that leaves that wonderful mouth – scrambles in his laps, blocking his thighs with his and, _oh_ , lets a ghost of a touch he so, so, _so_ much desires when their cocks, still constricted inside their trousers, rub together.

“Do not stop kissing me, ever, Geralt.” he moans, when he has to take a breath.

“I won't.” he says, with a lower voice, as he touches his nose with his and scent him. And, oh, Jaskier knows that Geralt _adores_ his scent, he never said it and probably will never do, but Jaskier has ears, and he can feel very well, and Geralt always make this small noise at the bottom of his throat whenever he pushes his nose inside his hair or neck – and yesterday morning, oh, he always did that and always made Jaskier tremble. “But nothing else.”

Jaskier freezes, stops – almost unwillingly – the kiss and gives Geralt _the look._ Most of the time is Jaskier on the receiving end of it, but now it seems really the perfect opportunity to imitate the one Geralt adores giving him. _The look of displeasure._ “I beg your pardon?”

“No fuck. Just kiss.” he says, murmuring it on his lips as it is the simplest thing in the world. Jaskier really can't see _how_ this should be so obvious like Geralt makes it sound.

“Wait, what? Could you _please_ elaborate with an actual sentence? If you have the _guts_ to tell me that again, that is.” he squeaks – and it's not so menacing as he would have liked to sound, sadly, he almost feels like an angry and wet cat abandoned under the rain, but he hopes it gets the idea nonetheless.

Geralt look at him, roaming his face with exasperated eyes, “We cannot fuck here, Jaskier. The bedrolls are old and dirty, and I won't put any strain on your legs for at least a fortnight.”

“A _fortnight_?!” he screams – he _shouts_ for Melitele's fucking sake – and he is not gonna lie, he almost cries, “Do you hate me so much? Do you want me dead of arousal? I already told you, it is a real thing, people have _died_ of it and now you are condamning me with their same unjustly fate.”

“I didn't say that I won't fuck you for a fortnight, Jaskier.” Geralt sighs, ever so patient. “You just have to wait until we reach an inn with an actual bed and a bath afterwords.” he mocks him, with the same words Jaskier told him three hours prior.

“We have no money.” Jaskier whines. The ten orens that they gained from the boat were used for their lunch, after all, and if only Jaskier could have known this sooner, he preferred to die of hunger but die happy tucked in Geralt's arms in an inn with an actual bed and a bath afterwords.

“I will take a contract or two.”

Jaskier grimaces. He prefers to fuck him _alive_ , thank you very much. “Ugh, the more the wait. I could sing my new ballad, and if in the next town people are so gentle and kind as the ones we left behind, we could stay for more than a night. Maybe two. Maybe three? Make four.”

Geralt smiles, and it is so so rare that Geralt smile with his teeth bare that if Jaskier was walking he would have missed a step or two at that blinding sight. So, he just blinks, and it kills him to say it, but gives in.

“Fine. You won, you insufferable man. Stay away from my arse as you wish, but I know you will surrender to me one day, because be sure, Geralt, I won't stop to seduce you until you give _it_ to me, so beware, I will drive you to exasperation.” he pouts, and he can clearly see Geralt's resolve waver at that sight – the pout always wins, ha! – but he just stays there, staring at him with that amused and fond gaze, with his hands tight on his hips. “But,” he adds, with a small voice, and Geralt raises an eyebrow. “if not my arse, maybe my dick? We could just touch ourselves, nothing else just as you want. No strain on my legs, like this, and we can still have our clothes on so no dirt up my–”

Geralt kisses him, probably to just shut him up. His hands are roaming on his whole body, Jaskier feels them _everywhere –_ well, except where he really wants, that is – until they stop on Jaskier's thighs and squeeze. Meanwhile, Jaskier all but _devours_ that clever mouth, pushing his tongue between those lips and caressing not too careful his teeth with the tip of it, and Gods, are there _fangs_? Jaskier really hope that the pointy canines he is cherishing are fangs, oh how sexy that would be. He moans shamelessly, while agitated starts to handle with Geralt's trousers.

“Geralt,” he pants, taking a breath. Geralt sinks onto his neck, right under Jaskier ear, and inhales deeply, and Jaskier almost loses it. “Touch me. Please, please, _please_.” he begs, oh how he begs, flushing his body against Geralt's, resisting the temptation to bounce on his lap.

“You talk even _now_?” Geralt asks with a hoarse whispers muffled on his neck.

Jaskier smirks, “Usually I _sing_ in this situations, my dear wonderful Witcher, but with you, Gods, with you is so difficult to even _think_ straight. You drive me totally crazy.” he hiccups the exact moment Geralt's hands touch him not relieving him from the constriction of his trousers yet.

Geralt kisses him slopply again, while Jaskier, with the last bit of sanity that he still has, finally, _finally_ puts his hands inside Geralt's clothes and closes his fingers around, oh oh _oh_ , Geralt's cock. Geralt grunts and pushes even _harder_ into his mouth.

Jaskier dares to take a peek while starting to stroke him, slowly and adoringly, and Melitele's tits, he's _hung_. Well, obviously Jaskier already saw him countless times naked, this is hardly the first time – and not the last he hopes – but, _well_ , he never sees him hard. And yeah, he really, _reaaaally_ likes the sight of it between his fingers – Gods, he can't even close completely his fingers around it, how was he supposed to resist until they find an inn – and he really likes how it _feels_ in his hand, full and hard and heavy and hot and _godsdamnit._

“Geralt, please, _Geralt_ touch me, please _please_.” he keeps on begging, and he keeps on stroking him and Geralt keeps on eating him. “Please, I need you to touch me _now_. Oh mother of every Gods out there, please Geralt you're killing me.”

“You're fine.” Geralt murmurs on his lips, and suddenly Jaskier sees nothing but lights and stars, when Geralt push his thumb where his balls are inside the trousers. “You will survive.”

“I will not.” he moans, “Fuck, Geralt. It's lovely.” he says, voice low, looking at his cock, “You're lovely. Fucking Gods, Geralt you absolutely have to let me ride you, I want to ride this maddening lovely cock until I lost consciousness.”

Geralt growls and it's only luck that he doesn't tear his trousers off, trying to free his cock and finally Jaskier – and oh how he desired exactly this, for how long, since forever – to feel his rough fingers around him, tighten them just as hard as he always dreamt of.

Jaskier leaves the grip he has on Geralt and sinks both his hands into Geralt's hair, smussing it and pulling hard the white strands. Geralt growls again, and kisses him, and starts to stroke both of them together, closing his big hand on both their cocks. Jaskier moves on him as if he's really fucking himself, bouncing and dashing around, going crazy while kissing him, and sucking his lips and tongue.

When he feels that weight in his lower belly, he doesn't fight it. He comes so hard he actually almost loses consciousness, because yeah, okay, he was aroused for so long, and he desired Geralt for maybe most of his lifetime, so he is completely justified if what he feels now is the best fucking feeling of the whole wide world.

He hugs Geralt because he feels like a stupid jelly, while Geralt too reaches his orgasm, his knees trembling and wobbly. Geralt, the sweetest man on earth, tucks him on his bedroll – yeah, it's shamefully the less dirty of the two, but it is not Jaskier fault at all – as he puts a rags out of his bag and cleans the both of them right before Jaskier could muster enough strength to take a little taste of their spends.

Then he lays down beside him, puts his arms around his waist, and closes his eyes. Jaskier looks at his so beautiful face with what he is pretty sure is the most adoringly gaze he could master, and he sighs while bringing a hand on his cheek and touching him with his fingertips.

Geralt smiles, and does not open his eyes. He is happy and Jaskier heart sings at that thought.

And so, he does just what his heart commands.

“ _He closed his eyes of amber / and he fell in an enchanted slumber._ ” he sings to him, softly as a lullaby, and his fingetips still caress his cheek, sensing his stubble and the tight skin around his smirking lips, “ _I will fight against the waves to let him see / before he marries the sea._ ”

❁

Geralt does not know what to do.

He feels... overwhelmed is an understatement. Jaskier is practically _insatiable_ , and it would not have been a problem in normal circumstances, but Geralt just _dreads_ the moment when he will not be able to find any more excuses to hold him at arm length. Not that it is his desire, fuck, it almost cannot believe it but it hurt physically just the thought of being away from Jaskier, but– but he doesn't want to end what they have so soon.

He admits, at least to himself, that he doesn't know if he will survive when Jaskier will just brush him away as he always did with his past lovers – he would not... endure it, he is sure of it.

So Geralt is only trying to postpone the inevitable as much as possibile. He still wants to feel his touch on him, his salty lips everywhere on his face, his callouses fingertips on his face while he thinks Geralt is asleep, his hand around him as if he is worshipping his whole body like a temple. Geralt is becoming used to Jaskier's attention, he craved it for so long and now that he has it he doesn't want to lose it.

But it is so _fucking_ difficult to resist. Expecially if Jaskier won't stop smelling so arousing, or seducing him everytime he has the opportunity, or trying to go down on him whenever they're making out. _Fuck_. For how long using the excuse of not put any strain on his legs can work?

Apart the over the edge arousal, Geralt always smells happiness and joy and _love_ in Jaskier scent when he is with him, or simply talk to him or look at him from Roach's saddle. That is the most important thing, at least– the rest... the rest will come, when the time comes, he guesses.

They arrive in the next nameless little town one and a half day after the first time he felt Jaskier's touch on him. He frowns, at the sight of that village, and looking better at it it doesn't even seem so little – the luck is that, at least, surely both of them will find some job and fucking finally gain some money to eat actual food that is not badly roasted rabbit.

“Ah. The ocean.” Jaskier, still on Roach and with his lute tucked carefully on one shoulder, opens his arms wide and breathes, “How I longed to hear the waves crashing agaist the white sand again, and I can not abide the absence of the cold water on my skin, imagining that my dear Witcher may slowly lay me by the shore and fuck my brains out–”

“There is a cliff. It is the same cliff of your visions?” he interrups him, narrowing his eyes, scannering the surroundings.

The town is not so small, and it looks much the same as the one they left behind, but there is a really big difference and that difference is a big port just a few meters from the marketplace. There are a lot of boats and ships anchored by the pier, and many groups of sailors come and go with packages and free the way for their passengers.

Jaskier gets off Roach, giving her a friendly pat on her mane, and pursues his lips. “No.” he muttures, and sighs, “It does not seems the right cliff, I am pretty sure of it. It is too high, and I remember correctly from my memory that the water almost touched the edge. Well, it would have been too good to be true, if we found the right place immediately after start searching for it.”

Jaskier tried two more time to see whatever that tiara wanted to show him, but every time he always saw the same vision, with the back of his grandmother and the water around them and her pitiful cries of agony. Geralt grunts, “Right. Let's go.”

“You mean, _let's go find the inn_?” Jaskier trotts at his side, a warm, big smile brightens his whole face. Geralt would look at him for the rest of his days, but in that right moment is a bit too preoccupied to fully appreciate this sight. It's not really fair.

“Let's go _find a job_ , Jaskier. We have no fucking money.” he furrows his brows, walking through the streets made from sand while people glance at them with suspicious eyes. “You go to the inn or the tavern and, I don't know, sing something. I will go see if there are some contracts for Witchers.”

“You are a boring man, my darling.”

Geralt smirks, pulling the reins of Roach in his hands, “You knew that from the start.” Then he adds: “Take Roach with you.”

Before they part, Jaskier throws him an amused wink off his shoulder. “It was better then expected, at least!” Jaskier laughs – he actually laughs a lot these days and that painful and pleasant feeling in his chest burns as a candle's light at that so loved sound – then turns away and disappears with the horse on his heels in the sea of people, totally uncaring of their staring.

Gritting his teeth, Geralt goes to find the notice board in search of a good job that would pay well without causing him instant death. But maybe, a broken arm? A poisonous jab? He feels really _disgusting_ just thinking that, but it could use a wound to reject Jaskier once again, and enjoy Jaskier's hands and kisses and attentions a couple of days more. After all, he is not a good man, he is a mutant and a monster or whatever people say, so maybe it is in his nature to find this kind of ugly subterfuges just to get what he can't have.

He doesn't fucking know what to do.

And his agony probably is written clearly in his face, since the moment a man approaches him near the board almost shits in his pants at the look Geralt throws him. “What?” he growls, but he is absolutely not mad at the old trembling man but just to himself.

“Ah– Yo–your a Witcher...” he almost faints, and Geralt rolls his eyes.

“Clearly, I am.” he mocks him, “What do you want?”

“The Alderman... may have a job for you...” the old man says, having gathered enough courage to at least look at him in the eyes. Jaskier, if he was here with them, would have snared at him and he would have said something between an offense and a mockery. Jaskier never bears people that hates or are disgusted or are afraid of Witchers. Well, Geralt thinks that it's a progress that the man didn't really faint, at least.

“Thank you” he says then, tilting his head, “Where is his house?”

“You are obvously not welcome in his house.” The old man grimaces, and he may think that he is not in any danger since he starts with the spite in his regards. “Go to the tavern, surely he is there drinking his sorrows away.”

He kind of hates wasting his time like this. So he clenches his jaw – and at this the man takes a step back frightened – and goes right the way where Jaskier disappeared into the crowd.

After seeing that Roach is taking care of at the stable – probably thanks to the two or three orens still in some Jaskier's pockets – Geralt enters inside the tavern and the first thing he notices is the lack of music. Never, in the twenty years that they traveled together, in the places where Jaskier puts his eccentric person before a potential crowd of fans and admirers, there was silence before. There is always a first time, Geralt thinks. And when he finds in the corner of the large deserted common room a very brooding bard, it seems it is not even his fault if he is not yet singing at his heart content.

“This place sucks.” Jaskier sighs, and follows Geralt as he sits in front of him. There is no drink or food on the table, and Geralt guesses that the little money he found in his pockets were enough just for Roach's comfort. “They all hate music, here. No singing, no dancing, no lute–playing. Nothing at all. It is so sad, and unfair. How a poor bard can survive in a town like this? Did I already tell you that I miss that lovely village we left behind three days ago? Apart for the Sirens, I loved that place.”

“You did. Plenty of time, too.” Geralt tries to smile, and Jaskies seems to relax when he gazes at his face, “Why don't they want you to play?”

“I don't fucking know and I don't fucking get it. A man said that the singing may cause bad feelings in people's hearts. What the hell does it even means?! Music is art, is passion, is _love_. Music is used to entertain and to make the people dream. Music lets everyone _survive_ the infinite bullshit that life keeps shoveling on them! It is surely never about bad feelings.”

And it is true, so very true. Music made fall in love even an unhuman like the Witcher that he is, it creeps inside his chest along with Jaskier's melodious voice a little more every day – so much that now he is so used to hear Jaskier's drafts while they walk through the Path, to feel Jaskier's whispered lullabies just before he falls asleep, to see Jaskier make everyone dance and sing along the rhythm of his songs and ballads about _him_.

His music saved him. As embarrassed as it is, it's the annoying truth.

“Hm.” Geralt looks around, in search for the Alderman but mostly to not see that adorable pout that draws Jaskier's mouth down.

“Have you had more luck than me, my dear?” he sighs again, while dramatically shifting his weight until his head bangs lightly against the wall behind him.

“The notice board was useless, full of people that would pay no more than a spit to know who the fuck stole their fishing nets.” he grunts, drumming his fingers on the table, longing for a mug of ale that he cannot buy to Jaskier. That marvellous blue eyes follow his movement in awe, and Geralt would bet both his swords that the lovely man in front of him is thinking something indecent again.

Jaskier snorts, sad. “So, no room at the inn, no bed and no bath afterwards.”

“An old man had enough guts to talk to me and tell me that the Alderman has a job for a Witcher.” he says at last, hoping to increase a bit his mood. “He said he is here.”

Jaskier blinks, “And what are we waiting for, exactly?” He widens his enormous eyes and smiles until his cheeks seem to pop, “We have to find him! Shall we?”

“I wanted to cheer you up first.”

“Oh.” Jaskier stares at him so intently, a light so bright inside his ultramarine blue eyes. “Oh, Geralt. I would kiss you until my tongue feels completely numb, but I have a feeling that everything beautiful like music and love isn't accepted here, so you have to wait for that.”

“I am a patient man, when needed.” Reluctantly, Geralt removes his eyes from Jaskier's face to look around, in search for a waiter or waitress. When a petite girl finds his gaze on her, she groans and comes closer, smelling so afraid Geralt almost thinks she will run away as soon as she hears his voice. He didn't hide his swords neither, so it is kind of his fault since her wide eyes seems to scan them as she takes one more step. “Do you know where the Alderman is?” he asks her, before she could spat at him.

“Oh, yes. Um, yes, he wanted a Witcher...” she swallows, then half turning around, she points a man at their opposite corner. A very sad man with a very amount of booze in his stomach, it seems, looking at the countless mugs of drank ale on his table.

Geralt nods, then gets up. “Good. C'mon, Jaskier.” says, and the girl all but flees.

“Yes, sir!” Excited, Jaskier stands too and trots along by his side. “Oh. He's the one who said to me that I can not performance!”

The Alderman is a pitiful man. He is clearly drunk, with that desperate expression in his too old for his age face while he sloshes melancholy the beer inside the mug in his hands, he has a untreated beard and just some grey hair on both side of his bald head. Geralt hopes that the man isn't too drunk to not be able to tell what his problem is.

Geralt and Jaskier both sits in front of him, and surprisingly the Alderman seems too distracted to fully understand that a Witcher – and a bard – is talking to him. “An old man said that you have a job for me.”

“I have. If you're a Witche'” he hiccups. Then raises his eyes from his mug and narrow them, trying to see the person in front of him through the haze of the mind. “And you're.”

Jaskier snorts, “Well, isn't he charming.” murmurs, under his breath. Even he could feel the nauseating smell coming from him, after all.

They both ignore him.

“I hav' a job for the likes of you. A lots of jobs, actually.” he slurs, then slams his palm hard against the chipped wood of the table, “This town was so rich and flourish, decades ago, the fishing trade was the apex of our fortune, but now the sea is ill and we have to make arrangements with _pirates_ of all things, our sailors and fishermen die on their jobs all thanks to those whores!”

Jaskier shifts beside him, and Geralt can feel his warmth so close to his side it is almost distracting. “Whores?” he asks.

“ _Sirens_! All whores the lot of 'em!” the Alderman shouts, and Jaskier jumps on his place. Geralt's hands itch to touch him or give him some supports, or maybe an hug. Jaskier loves getting hugged. “They keep on seducing hopeless men that their only fault is searching for something to eat or sell in the places near their nests with their enchanted singing, that's why I ordered you to keep your mouth shuts here, boy. People complain, begging for measures that not me or the Mayor are able to take, and we are desparate, Witcher.” the man pants, his small eyes wide as a madman's.

“Well, I can understand how Sirens can be insufferable and unbearable, but if people try to stay away from them I dare to think that–”

Jaskier jumps again and closes his mouth so hard that his teeth seems to clatter, when the Alderman slams his palm again. Geralt feels himself getting angrier and angrier – if that fucking man won't stop talking shits _about_ Jaskier– “No no _no._ Kill all of 'em!” he screams, with a broken voice.

Jaskier stays silent, and sadness ad a bit of acrid panic stains his wonderful salty scent. And it is so wrong, so so wrong. One thing is joke about slashing Sirens in his song, another is really see Geralt kill them now that he knows he is one of _them_. “I don't kill Sirens.” Geralt growls, staring right in the Alderman's eyes.

“What does it means, you don't kill Sirens?! It is your fucking job to kill _monsters_!”

The panic in Jaskier's scent definitely dimms after his words. Geralt does not know if that feeling is still caused by the old fear he definitely had, when they first know he is a Siren. Jaskier kept – and keeps – on telling him he is _not_ afraid of him, because he trusts him and he always will, and Geralt can smell the truth of those words in the sheer happiness that always surrounds him, but... but how could he blame him, when things like this happens, if he has a bit of fear towards him?

He feels Jaskier's adoringly eyes on him, when he talks again, “I don't kill Sirens, so if your job is this you have to find another Witcher.” he says, and stands, “Goodbye.”

“No, wait. Wait.” the Alderman seems to calm himself, and Geralt sits again. Jaskier moves a bit, getting if possible even nearer him. Knowing him, if they were alone, he would have take his hand in his – and Geralt thinks that maybe he is trying to soothe him, to calm him, to indirectly tell him that he is _still not_ afraid of Geralt. Well, fuck.

“I won't change my mind and I don't care about money. If you have another job from me that it doesn't include Sirens, I'm all ears.”

“Fine.” the Alderman grumbles, “Our seas are full of strange monsters, apart for Sirens. I have plenty of work for you.”

“Strange monsters? What kind of monsters?” asks Jaskier, leaning on the table. His eyes flicks with curiousity, “Drowners?”

Geralt smiles, proudly, “They live in swamps and rivers.” he tells him.

“Oh, right.” he pouts.

“No, they are nameless monsters, no one know what kind. No one ever saw anything like them before, and they are a _calamity_ , they cause shipwrecks and people die and packages with foods and drinks and silks and cottons are lost in the depths of the ocean. You have to kill at least the most dangerous one. I can pay you abundantly.”

Geralt nods.“I'm in. Tell me about it.”

“I never saw it.” the Alderman says, touching his mug. In that precise moment, Jaskier pulls his journal and quill already dripping of ink out and opens it until he finds a blank page. “There aren't many survivors, but the ones who were actually lucky to see another day say that the monster is black and big, bigger than a castle, and so strong that it can destroy ships with just one tentacle.”

“It has a tentacle?” asks Jaskier, frowning. Geralt sees him start drawing in his journal, and he doesn't raise his eyes, too preoccupied to look at him or the Alderman. He just sees his little pink tongue pick out his mouth, licking slowly his upper lip in concentration and Geralt– Geralt should stop. Just thinking that he _has_ all of him but if he dares to accept what he is so gladly offering he would lose him is umbearable.

“It has _hundreds_ tentacles, boy!” the Alderman shouts, agitated.

Jaskier gasps, “Hundreds?!”

“Hundreds and hundreds of ugly and slimy tentacles, all attached to its big and monstrous head! It has a lot of disgusting black holes on them, I think they're eyes but 'm not so sure, could very well be poisonous weapons or something.” the Alderman shivers, “Jus' the thought petrifies me.” he hiccups, then.

“ _Oooh_. Scary thing, indeed.” Jaskier murmurs, and Geralt raises an eyebrow when he, proudly, lifts his journal – and some pages just fall from it, full of poetry and poems written with a flourishing handwriting – and shows them his masterpiece. “Is it something like this?”

The Alderman shivers again, “Yes!”

Apart from his heart that almost combust under the endless affection he feels towards that impossibly cute bard, Geralt just grunts and says: “It's a fucking octopus.”

“Well, yes, but it seems that it is a _giant_ octopus. And that is a _giant_ difference, my dear Witcher.”

“Why the hat, though?” Geralt genuinely asks, when he sees the little drawn hat on the octopus' enormous head.

“Someone has to be charming in the Alderman's place, after all.”

The man's inhale rattles, choking on his own spit. “ _Excuse me_?!”

“He's jesting. Right, Jaskier?” Under his narrowed and vaguely threatening gaze, Jaskier just close solemnly his eyes and mimicks a cross upon his chest. “Good. So, I will kill this thing, but not for free, of course.”

“I told you, Witcher. Whatever it takes to eviscerate the calamity out of my town.”

“Three hundred golden coins.” says Jaskier, immediately. “I need to buy a bedroll.”

The Alderman splutters, and seems to start being drenched in cold sweat after Jaskier's words. “T–that's way too much!”

“My friend here is going to fight against a terrible and deadly sea monster, surely it's not the same thing as going around in every tavern trying to drown the sorrow in a mug half full of ale. And also, I need to buy a new bedroll before they go out of stock, and I also want to rent a room at the inn of course.”

The Alderman grumbles, “One hundred, with the room payed.”

“Well, we need to eat and drink too, you know. Two hundred with the room, but if it is still too much for you, you may wait for another Witcher. But beware, sir, no Witcher is as magnanimous as the White Wolf, they may not accept such low prices for such a perilous job.”

“One hundred and fifty, with the room and the food for a night. _After_ you bring me the proof of the monster's death.” the Alderman surrenders, at last.

“Deal!” Jaskier almost scrumbles on the table to shake the tired man's hand, then he sighs and looks at Geralt with his satisfied eyes, big and beautiful, bright and shameless. “See, Geralt? That's how you do the talking.” then he turns to the Alderman, as they both stand, and winks and bows slightly, “Now off we go, our generous sir. I let you know, you never get bored when you travel with a Witcher!”

The octopus Geralt has to find and kill lives, obvously, underwater.

This may be a problem.

Jaskier is by his side, as always, even if he begged him to stay at the tavern while he takes care of the monster, but from the very start Geralt knew that he was just wasting breath – of fucking course Jaskier would come with him, he certantly doesn't want to be left behind expecially if Geralt's job is not so life–treatening – or so it seems, at least for now. Sometimes, Geralt has to lie to him about where he goes and what he hunts, or else it would be impossible to leave him tranquil in a safe place. He feels guilty, most of the times, but he would tell him countless lies, if it means that he is safe away from danger – even away from _him_.

But Geralt is a selfish being, and he knows that he would jump into the fire hundreds times before letting Jaskier get hurt, so he gives in the temptation to let him stay with him. And now that he feels the time together becoming less and less every day, he surrenders even without much of a fight.

The port is crowded, sailors passing by without much care. They are not looking at them stupidly standing near the edge of the pier, eyes on the horizon; Jaskier is sitting on the verge, the edges of his eccetric yellow trousers are lifted, his naked legs are into the ocean's water and he is looking so peaceful, with his eyes closed and the faint wind that's caressing the mop of his brown hair, as if just feeling the sea against his feet is enough to bring him joy. Another thing that one day probably would take Jaskier away from him.

“So. Here we are. What are we doing?” he says, cheerfully, leaning on his palms behind him.

Geralt stands still, eyes on the water. “We wait.”

“Sure, we wait. We wait for a sea monster to... what? Come here and anchor himself at the pier, staying completely immobile and allowing you, a wonderful but a bit clueless Witcher, to gracefully cut it in tiny, little strands with your scary silver sword?”

“It certantly is not a clever creature. I'm not even sure it's a creature at all. Just a fucking giant octopus.”

“I bet,” Jaskier opens his eyes, and under his gaze he feels nailed on the spot. He likes that sensation, as embarrassing as it is. “I bet that you are thinking about _fishing_ it.”

He wasn't thinking about that, but at this point any idea is better than no idea, so he very well has found the solution. “I might.” he just says, then.

Jaskier only laughs, and sighs looking at him in a curious way – he seems half lost in thoughts, half completely and, _fuck_ , maddening in love. He has the habit to tighten his lips, when he thinks too much and too hard and expecially when the thoughts he is having aren't pleasant. And he is doing just that, with unfocused eyes and wrinkled nose.

“You alright?” Geralt asks him, then, frowning. He thinks he knows what is in his mind.

Jaskier blinks, smiles and cocks his head. “Yep.”

“You sure?”

“Aye aye.” he nods, and throws his gaze to the ocean, following the waves as they crush against the shore. He moves his legs and splashes a little of water around, but Geralt doesn't complain. “Just. You know. I was thinking about what that charming man said. About the Sirens, I mean.” he waits for Geralt to grunt, then continues: “I hadn't... I didn't think about that, I must admit. I fucking saw the way they hunts with my own eyes, I saw them trying to do to you what they are doing to every unlucky man out there, and... and... I didn't fully understand. Until now. They kill them, they _eat_ them. For fuck's sake, I saw _their carcasses_ in that hateful island and they do that with _music._ I–” he gulps, “I may have been wrong, before. Music not always brings joy, or love. It brings death, in this case. And, _Gods_ , I hate it.”

Geralt sits on his knees, beside him, but Jaskier doesn't look at him. No one cares, around them. “There was fear, in your scent.”

Jaskier snorts, “I hope you are not about to tell me that you are sorry or some shit like this, because I sure as fuck wasn't afraid of you. I will never fucking be, Geralt.”

Geralt is still not quite convinced, “Hm.” he hums, “But you were calmer when I said that I do not kill Sirens.”

“Yes, I gladly was. It is not... not fair, because I _know_ they kinda deserve to be killed, after what they _tried_ to do to you but... I'm glad you won't do it. I'm just– just glad.” he shrugs, then, and again tightens his lips together, “It still doesn't mean that I was afraid of you. You know, not everything bad revolves around your muscolar person, you silly man.” then, and just then, Jaskier's broad smile blinds him and shifts his weight so he can put a hand on his rough cheek, giving him the sweetest caress. Geralt almost leans in that kind gesture, and immediately misses it when Jaskier lets go.

They fall into a peaceful silence, if not for the chatter around them and the splashing waves. The sun is blindly in front of them – probably it's middle afternoon – and they haven't eaten anyting since the night before and they will likely not eat as long as they don't kill that octopus, but things could be worse. Jaskier could not be here with him. That would be the worst.

“So? Any idea?” Jaskier breaks the silence, and starts to glance around, “I wonder if that monster is edible.”

“It's _still_ a fucking octopus.” Geralt repeats, “Of fucking course it is.”

“Well, I could very well eat a giant octopus right now. But, alas, I'm starting to think that the best we could do is _really_ go and fish it. It would have helped to have an available boat, oh how our lives would have been simplified if only we didn't sold that rotten boat we had two day ago.” Jaskier sighs dramatically, eyes roaming everywhere, half lidden closed. “Oh, the woe, the loss!”

Geralt grits his teeth, “Shut up. We could not travel with a fucking boat tied on Roach!”

“ _Oh, the woe_!”

Geralt rolls his eyes, and stares at the sea. This is really may be a problem. They don't even have money to rent another boat. He would like to snarl, irritated. He grunts, instead.

“I could attract it here.”

Geralt turns his head so fast to look at Jaskier it snaps loudly, and he has that peaceful expression on his face, that's _maddening_. He hopes he didn't hear what he actually heard. “ _What_?”

“Well, it's a logical solution. I can jump into the water, and, you know, with me having finns and gills, I can swim around and search for the monster. It should not be a difficult task, my idea is to just attract it to where you are waiting – I appreciate not being _here_ , I don't want to risk someone seeing me as a Siren, thank you very much – and then, at that point you do what you always do: _zac zac zac_ with that big sword of yours, and no, I'm not trying to seduce you now, my dear.”

“You are out of your fucking mind if you think I'll allow this.” he really does snarl now, his nostrils flares – and like this, he can smell Jaskier so good he would be inebriated if only he isn't so _angry_ – and bares his teeth.

“You think I won't be able to do that?” Jaskier grimaces, and his face darkens. Oh no, he doesn't pout, he doesn't frown – he _glares._ His glares are so rare and– fuck, how a man can be not so threatening while glaring it's beyond Geralt's comprehension. He's cute, though. It's just thanks to that if Geralt just doesn't start pacing to calm himself. Just the _thought_ of having Jaskier so close – and _alone_ , far from his sight – to danger is unbearable.

“It's not that. Fuck, Jaskier.” Geralt inhales hard with his nose, trying not to panic.

“Ah, no? What it is, then? I swear to Melitele, Geralt–”

“I _can't see you_ under the sea. If something happened to you, I _wouldn't even know._ ” _until it's too late and you won't come back and it terrorizes me, not being able to save you from your own world_ , he thinks, with an acid taste on his tongue that kneads his mouth, but he doesn't say it out loud.

Somehow, Geralt knows that Jaskier _knows_ , the words he doesn't speak. “Oh.” he says, in fact, “ _Oh._ Uh. Right. If this is the reason... I can accept it.” he mumbles, and his eyes are so, so soft and so, so blue, “Sorry, my dear heart of gold. I didn't think.”

“Funny. That's a first.”

Jaskier childishly sticks his tongue out at him, but doesn't answer the provocation. He just starts to chatter away the bad mood out of him, and Geralt is so glad that Jaskier is always able to do that. Geralt feels as if he's trapped inside his own fears – fears he _shouldn't_ have, they are distractions and distractions means death and failure – and all of them revolves around Jaskier, as fucking always. He knows that Jaskier, sooner or later, would leave him, he has known that from the very start but now the sense of loss it's looming above him like a curse, and he still doesn't fucking know what to do about that.

Jaskier will leave him, be it because he's bored, or tired of him; be it because he wants to be part of his real world or whatever the fuck he wants to do with what his grandmother will tell them. Whatever the reason will be, it always ends with Jaskier leaving him – and Geralt of course will accept it, he will accept everything that makes Jaskier happy, but– but, _fuck_.

When Jaskier's chatter stops abruptly, Geralt almost doesn't notice it. He does notice when he gets up, suddenly, and starts to jump on the spot. “What are you doing?”

“There is a strange ship there.” he points a finger to their left, and when Geralt look where he is directing, farther away from the other ships, there is actually a strange, big, black one. “There's... there's something on its front that... is familiar.”

Geralt obvously sees the ship better than he does, “It's a statue. So?”

“So, shall we go and see?”

“Why?” he raises an eyebrow, standing straight and blocking him from doing something stupid.

“What do you mean, why? Of course, my darling, because I am utterly curious and that statue rings a bell in my mind, so I want to see it.” he explains, good–naturedly. He settles his lute case better on his shoulder, he straightens his yellow doublet and shifts on his feet, ready to go. The edges of his trousers are still lifted.

“I hate to break the news to you like this,” Geralt sighs, and he cares to impress into his voice as much sarcasm as he can muster, “but it's a pirate ship, Jaskier.”

“How do you know that? Just because it's a black ship? You are always dressed in black but that doesn't mean you're a pirate. You would be a very sexy pirate, by the way, you surely smell the same.”

“The flag.” Geralt pinches the bridge of his nose, his patience wearing thin. Sometimes, Jaskier is so, so, _so_ annoying. “It has a skull. It is not a skillful drawning, but it gets the idea. They're pirates, and it means that we won't– _what the fuck_ , Jaskier!” he shouts, when Jaskier, the little shit he is, just sprints and dodges him, and runs toward the ship.

Of fucking course Geralt would have been able to stop him with just a hand, no matter how he would have spluttered or trashed around to free himself, but Geralt didn't _think_ that the idiot would _run away from him_ to do something as stupid as go seeing the shittiest pirate's ship he ever met. So, he cought him off guard, damn him.

He runs after him, and if there wasn't so many people walking and chattering amiably he would have already reached him – but the little shit is _fast_ , that is. Probably thanks for the endless hours that Geralt made him walk behind Roach, he does have enough stamina to keep a step ahead of him. He might have underestimated him, and lately this is happening a lot.

Geralt manages to close his fingers around one of his arms covered by the yellow doublet, and finally stops him. The pirate's ship is a few meters from them, and most of the people passing by ignore them and the ship the same – just some of them look suspiciously their way, but they don't do anything. Jaskier turns around when he feels grabbed, and his wide, beautiful blue eyes stare at him right in his, and, fuck _fuck_ , Jaskier widens them even _more_ and here there are, his puppy eyes. Oh, no, _the puppy eyes._

“Geralt,” he whispers, softly, “it's a Siren. The statue on the ship's front, is a Siren. And it resembles _so much_ like her, Geralt, I– I need to know.” he begs, and he raises a hand until he entwines his fingers with his around his arms.

Geralt looks at their hands, tight together, then at his pleading eyes. The ship looms behind him, seems a bad omen and Geralt knows that he should always listen his guts when they try to warn him.

“You are here with me.” he simply adds, and the little shit knows that Geralt stops fighting whenever he shows his puppy eyes. The little shit _knows_ that he has won, as Geralt knows that he so shamefully lost. “Why should I be afraid when I have the best Witcher of the whole Continent by my side? If something happens, you just to the thing,” he unhands him for a second to mimick a sword with his entire arm, “and flee. No one will care about pirates.”

“Jaskier.” he growls.

“Trust me. I have a plan!”

“Somehow, I'm not relieved to hear that.”

Jaskier licks his lips, then he makes sure that no one is looking at them. At last, he pushes himself against Geralt and kisses him, loud and amiably. Just a smooch, a press lips to lips, and Geralt misses that mouth the second it leaves him.

“Trust me.” Jaskier repeats, with only a breath separating them, eyes half hidden behind his eyelids so, so bright and blue.

And, obviously.

Of fucking course.

Geralt gives in.

What happened next, Geralt still can quite believe it. He just stays behind Jaskier, while he chatters with an ugly man with a full black beard, a bald shiny head and thick biceps covered in ink. The man laughs rudely at everything Jaskier says – even if he glance at Geralts sometimes, but Geralt just keeps silent, looking how Jaskier fucking _flirts_ with that pirate they found the moment they put their foot on the ship.

The only reason Jaskier is still alive it's because Geralt looms behind him, all black and menacing. And probably because Jaskier is as threatening as a wet cat under the rain, the pirate just laughs at him, amused beyond all limits.

After at least ten minutes where Jaskier makes his way into the pirate's heart, Jaskier says: “My _companion_ here needs a ride to go and kill a sea monster.” and pats Geralt's chest. The armor clangs lightly at the gesture. “We have no, uh, alternative than beg for your magnanimous generosity and ask to take us with you until we find the monster.”

“ _He_ 's goin' to kill one of the monsters in the area?” the pirate barks a laugh. “Yeah, sure.”

Geralt snorts. Jaskier splutters instead. “You don't know who this wonderful man is?” asks, with a high–pitched voice, outraged.

“Eh, no? Apart that he's a fuckin' ugly old man, he is.”

“ _Ugly old man_...” Geralt glances at Jaskier, and he sees his mouth wide open, a shocked expression on his handsome features. He's blinking dramatically, “My friend, I am afraid you need a doctor. You may have a problem with your sight, and it cannot be a good thing for a pirate like yourself. What is it that you said you do, again? Killing, stealing, kidnapping?”

“Nay, boy!” the pirate laughs again – he actually laughs a lot. “We are _traders_ , not pirates!” he explain, baring his canine while grinning. His little eyes narrows.

“Sure you are!” Jaskier claps just once his hands, returning the smile, albeit sweetly – too sweetly. “Traders are just what we need! Unfortunately, we have no money, but I could sing a song or two about your extraordinary adventures in exchange of a ride offshore, so my Witcher here can do his job. I guess it can be convenient to you too if there are less monsters in the sea, while you... _work_. Am I right?”

“A Witcher, eh. I heard 'bout your kind.” Now, the pirate is talking to Geralt, still presumptuous but with a suspicious glint in his small eyes, “Is it true you eat children?”

Geralt rolls his eyes, “Plenty.” he grunts, while Jaskier makes an offended sound in his behave.

“But I won't help. Not for naught.” The pirate grins again, “Good swords you have there. They worth a lot. _That_ can be a good trade, Witcher.”

Jaskier winces beside him. “Oh, no.” he moans, covering his face with his hands.

The ship under them moves a little, uncaring of the waves crashing against its sides. Geralt can clearly see two more pirates badly hidden behind the main mast and its closed sails, and Geralt would feel pity for this three man, if they hadn't dared to even _think_ of touching his swords and to _flirt with Jaskier_. They surely aren't his favorite people at the moment.

Geralt decides to scare them a little, then.

The sun shines blindly against the steel blade, and the pirate shamefully welps when Geralt stops his sword right against his neck, just under his ears, cutting a bit of his beard. It happens in an instant, the man doesn't even notice until he feels the cold on his skin and Geralt's eyes way to close and ominous. “You want my swords?” he asks, and it's his time to smile – and he knows that his smiles are ugly and scaring, just Jaskier is so mad to actually sighs fondly whenever he makes one –, “Where do you want them? In your guts? Or in your friends'?”

The pirate raises his hands, he trembles and starts sweating. He hears the others do the same.

“See, little lark? This is how you do the talking.”

Jaskier just crosses his arms against his chest and puffs, utterly offended.

He doesn't know what Jaskier said after that, but somehow now Jaskier and he are part of the crew. Geralt is not happy of how the things are going, but grudgingly has to admit that those three pitiful robbers that call themselves traders can be of help. At least, now, Geralt can reach the ocean without swimming or, Gods forbid, without Jaskier trying to let himself killed doing a bait.

The bald pirate says that the rest of the crew – he informs them that they are more than twenty young and strong man – is talking with the Mayor about important things and important trades and, well, pratically most of them are in a brothel, so the three that they met are guarding the ship. Not that they are doing a great job, considering that Jaskier and he got on the ship without much than a slip on the footbridge from Jaskier. But Geralt is more or less calm, because they just seems so idiotic and meek that he can't comprehend _how_ they became pirates. Probably they just steal around and nothing else, and they never used much the slim swords they have tied up their waist. These three, at least.

Jaskier is just as a lucky bastard as always. Only he could go without thinking about consequences and get back with more than he ever expected.

The rest of the crew will come back in two days – or less – so, the three man begs, Geralt has to do his job in time, or else. Shit will happen. Geralt doubts that _he_ would get the worst of it, and he kind of hates those man that dare to get too comfy around Jaskier, but he'll behave. For Jaskier, he'll try. In the end, they sail not too much time after Jaskier begged for their generosity, Jaskier is excited beyond all limits while he looks the port and the little town becoming smaller and smaller on the horizon, leaning on one side of the black ship, the sea breeze ruffling his dark hair.

“Happy?” he asks, getting near him. He sees his blue eyes on the water under them.

“Very. I must admit, you know how to do the talking with this kind of people, you really scared them, poor unfortunate souls. So much that they are giving us their captain's cabin to sleep tonight!” he turns around and looks at him, a knowing smile on his red lips that Geralt _knows_ what it means. “I didn't thought we could be this lucky, but then again, now we have a way to find the octopus, we have drink and food for _free_ and we have a room all for us, still for free. Why should not I be happy?” he blinks, then puts his face on one hand, his elbow leaning on the sill of the deck, and little droplets of salty water splash all around him, “Aren't you?”

Fuck. He is. He is _always_ happy near Jaskier. But that sense of loss, the loss that one day – and it is not too far either – will come, stops whatever pleasant and peaceful feelings he has in his insides, and he would gladly punch himself right now to just get over with it. Or just, live the moment.

“Hm.” so he as always grunts, dropping the gaze he had on Jaskier.

“Ohw, I know, I know what that grunt means: it's soft, not too forced, and the shape of your mouth now doesn't resemble the one you have when you do your favourite expression, the face of displeasure. So, yes, I get that you are happy too, my darling. Maybe, you know, after we investigate a bit about that statue that resemble so much my grandmother, I could say that I am suddenly seasick and I need to lie down. On a bed. And that I need someone to take my, uh, my _hand_ and tell me that everything is gonna be alright. You, if I have to be specific about who I want near me during that dreadful moments.” he murmurs, and he lifts a fingers and touches him on his chest, and even that simple gesture, even with his clothes and armor on, is just so meaningful that a shiver runs down his back. Geralt knows that Jaskier can't see his tremble, but somehow that wonderful little shit _knows._

“You could.” he just says, swallowing down the acrid taste in his mouth that it has nothing to do with pleasure.

“I _definitely_ will.” he whispers, and his fingers slowly gets down, and down again. Fuck.

He stops right before the hem of his breeches, withdrawing his hand and fuck, _fuck_ he cannot survive his loss but he cannot survive _this_ neither, so. Fuck. Yeah, he's gonna fuck him, he has no more excuses to use and he doesn't even want to try to find another one, he wants him so much it's unbearable – and the rest, will come later. If he asks nicely enough, Jaskier will stay, after all. He knows he will, he always stayed. If he asks, probably he will only lose his touch and his devotion, but at least he'll stay.

So that's why Geralt now is looking at him with a heated gaze, barely resisting the temptation to throw him on one of his shoulder and close themselves inside the captain's cabin and not get out for at least twelve hours. Geralt clearly hears how Jaskier gulps, and wet his suddenly chapped lips. His breathing is deeper that usual, as his heartbeat is as loud as a war drum.

“Move, then.” he tells him, with a low voice that, since he shivers, Jaskier surely likes to hear. His scent now is overwhelming, the chamomile is almost completely engulfed in the salt of his skin and his sweat – and he wants too much to get drunk, sinking his nose right where his smell is stronger, right below his ear. But not now, not now. They still have time.

Jaskier whimpers, a soft moan deep on his throat. Then he clumsly take out of his case his lute and puts it in a very careful way against his chest, almost hugging it, pouring all his love. “Yeah, yep. Sure, I go. _Now._ They want a song, I will give them a song, I will let them talk and I will ask questions, and then... fuck, Geralt.” he rumbles, fingers trembling lightly on the strings. “Literally. _Fuck_.”

Geralt snorts, and laughs softly. At that sound, Jaskier whimpers again.

He then jumps around the deck, lute on hands and a beautiful smile on his lips. He gets closer to the three pirate, all sat on the floor of the deck apart for the one that's on the wheel, drinking what it seems it's rum or maybe something even stronger, probably to forget what the fuck they are doing stealing their own ship to give a favour to a Witcher – that threatened them, nonetheless. “A song, gentlemen. To raise your spirits! And to give you some rewards, after all you are so kindly helping us, and we really appreciate the gesture. A preference? I am here to serve.”

“Ah, bard! You serve very well, we hope!” the blonde pirate on the wheel says, clearly already high enough to not undestand that the bard is _Geralt's._ “Are you sure you dun' wanna stay with us after the Witcher's job?”

Jaskier smiles, luscious, ignoring Geralt's growl behind him. “I like the land very much, my friend.” he then adds: “And I'm not really good at... _trading_ things. So? Any preference for the song?”

“Pity. But sing, boy! Sumthin' 'bout us! Us traders, I mean!” the bald one barks a laugh as always, sloshing his mug around and the rum inside falls sadly on the floor. The third one stays silent, but Geralt doesn't like the interested way he is looking at Jaskier.

“Unfortunately, I do not know as much pirate's songs as I wish to, but I think I have the right one for you!” he nods, then strums a note or two.

Then he bows, dramatically graceful and Geralt feels his nails biting the palm of his hands, when he catches the glances the pirates are giving to Jaskier's arse. What the fuck. _What the fuck_ , he's feeling the jealousy creeping inside him like a viper's venom – and it never happened before, not this much, but now Jaskier _is his_ , he is _his_ , they have no rights to look at him like that, no fucking rights.

But he just keeps on staring at them, hoping that his looks would be enough to scare – kill – them, as Jaskier hops and starts singing.

“ _The King and his man / stole the Queen from her bed / and bound her in her bones._ ”

Jaskier voice is soft, and harmonious as usual. Not even a tip of his allure stains his melody. The men seem to know the song, and starts to clap their hands on the rhythm of Jaskier's lute. Jaskier beams, as he always do when someone appreciates his performaces, and spins around the deck on tiptoes, dancing as graceful as he can while singing and playing the lute.

“ _The seas be ours and by the powers / where we will we'll roam._ ”

Jaskier's bright eyes always roam where Geralt is, waiting for something, or just to see if he is listened to him and him alone – and Geralt is, he always listens to him, will gladly do that for the rest of his existence. Geralt gets closer, doesn't stop looking at how he dances around like a butterfly. His yellow suit reflects the blinding rays of sun, his trousers are still lifted by the edges and his light shoes scratch silently against the black wood of the ship's floor.

He is so fucking _beautiful_.

“ _Yo ho, all hands / hoist the colours high / heave ho, thieves and beggars / never shall we die!_ ”

The pirates sing the verses right after him, in a bizarre chorus that Geralt doesn't like because he so much prefers to only listen Jaskier's voice. In the end, he leans against the sill, behind the seated pirates. Jaskier's eyes never leave him.

The silent one stops singing and turns around, glancing suspiciously at him. “You don't sing, Witcher?”

“I'm working.” The pirate gets up, getting near. The others ignore him, but not Jaskier, that throws a curious look at them. When the pirate raises a eyebrow, he adds: “There are a lot of Sirens in the waters around the ship. Funny that they aren't attacking us yet.”

“Funny, eh?” he grins, “We have our ways to stay out of troubles.”

The pirate has a mop of black, thick hair. His eyes are a boring brown with an almost invisible grey spot on one of his irises, the left one – probably he can't see very well. Geralt doesn't know his name, nor the names of his pals the same, and he does not care to discover that, considering that if it wasn't for Jaskier, they would not live to see another day. “Care to explain?” he asks, then, not giving him much attention, since Jaskier is still singing after all.

“ _The bell has been raised / from it's water grave / Hear it's sepulchral tone? / A call to all / pay heed the squall / and turn yourself toward home!_ ” Jaskier sings, voice held high.

“Our cap has a friend. Gives us a magic hand, if you know what I mean.”

Geralt narrows his eyes, “A sorcerer?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

He did feel the magic in the air, back then when they arrived. At first, he thought that the medallion was reacting at the Sirens or the monsters nearby, but now that the pirate has told him it is magic that takes the creatures out of sight, Geralt guesses he was wrong.

He wonders why that magic has no effects on Jaskier. Is it just because his body now is human, as he reacts differently like he did with his medallion?

“ _Yo ho, haul together / hoist the colour high / heave ho, thieves and beggars / never shall we die!_ ”

Geralt looks around, concentrating on the sensation that makes his medallion vibe. He seems to vibe even louder when his eyes stop on the Siren's statue anchored by the bow of the ship. Well, isn't this a funny coincidence.

“The statue?” Geralt frowns, as does the pirate. “It's enchanted.”

“Well, you are smarter than you look, at least! Guess it's the old age. Makes wiser.”

So, a sorcerer made an enchanted statue that pushes away unwanted guests – it probably has a form of a Siren for the same motive. Clever, he admits it. Guess that after he has dealt with the fucking octopus, their next stop is to wherever this so called sorcerer is that probably knows Jaskier's grandmother – there should be a reason it resembles her, after all – and they could tell them something actually useful.

Geralt gazes the pirate again. He has started to sing along Jaskier again, staring at him in a way that makes Geralt's blood boil. “Where can I find this sorcerer?”

“Dunno. In a desert island somewhere in these waters, I say. Big secret. Just cap knows where, probably.” he answers, distracted.

“Lets get this clear enough.” he growls. He doesn't get closer to him, he doesn't move or snap at him, but Geralt can plainly hear his heart jump at the ominous sound of his voice. “If you keep looking at the bard like that, I will chop your balls off and then shovel them down your throat.”

“W–what.” he trembles, and tries to take a step back. He barely succeeds.

He narrows his eyes even more. “Would you like a demonstration?”

“ _Yo ho, all hands / hoist the colour high / heave ho, thieves and beggars / never shall we die!_ ”

“N–no...”

“Wise choice. Guess it's the old age.”

Jaskier ends his song, smiling proudly at the drunk applause he receives. He bows again, and the two pirates whistle at him – he has to threaten them too, Geralt thinks – but the one who he was talking with just lowers his head, clapping his hands, grimacing and probably not entirely convinced it is a good idea.

Jaskier glances at Geralt, and licks his chapped red lips, face flushed pink.

Later, they eat as Jaskier chatters amiably with all of them, asking questions and the two completely drunk pirates seem to know nothing more about the statue than the silent one. He, on the other hand, just bites his piece of bread, sweating whenever he hears Geralt's grunts, and never looks at Jaskier. Good. For once, that ridiculous thing about being scaring and all doesn't backfire.

Jaskier does not seem to care about the scared as fuck pirate, nor about the drunkness of the other two. He just, after no more than an hour and after he ate and drank as he wished, shifts around and melodramatically grips his stomach, woefully whimpering about a terrible uneasiness so strong that he absolutely needs to lay down specifically in the captain's chamber bed.

At least, he seems very happy and excited when Geralt just helps him stand and supports him, flashing his entire body against his, until they reach the captain's chamber and its door is closed behind them. Geralt just wishes he could feel the same.

❁

Jaskier doesn not care about the interiors of the captain's chamber. When the door is closed behind Geralt's back, he has just the time to actually see that there is really a bed in here – rotten, but better than nothing – before he turns in Geralt's embrace and pins him against said door. It creaks a bit under the wonderful man that is Geralt's weight.

Jaskier kisses him and moans inside his mouth as if he's a thirsty man – and he is, he really is – that has finally the possibility to drink as his heart desires. He sinks his fingers through Geralt's white hair, scratches his scalp and grips some strands. Then he pulls, he angles Geralt's face so che can kiss him even more deeply, sucking almost all of his clever tongue, savouring the alcohol that's still lingering in his palate. He moans even louder, when Geralt's strong arms close around his waist.

“I can fucking believe it.” he murmurs against his lips, licking them, biting them. Geralt's growls with his reministrations, and Jaskier feels something _liquify_ in his belly, hearing that sound. “Fucking _finally_ , Geralt. I want you so much _it hurts_.”

And for once, it's not an exaggeration, it's not about his usual dramatic behaviour. No, Jaskier waited _twenty fucking years_ to finally say that Geralt is _his_ , and he is _Geralt's_ , and he wants now everything Geralt is willing to give him, everything, everytime, _now._ Or surely he's gonna die of arousal.

“I can't wait,” he whispers, and jolts pleasantly when Geralt's teeth bites his neck, right under his lobe, and _breathes._ Jaskier doesn't even care that it's been three days since he had a bath that it wasn't just a swim into the ocean or in a muddy river, he doesn't care as long as Geralt's hands keep on roaming his entire and still too clothed body and licks his sweaty skin. “to _finally_ have that lovely cock inside _me_.”

“Jaskier.” Geralt growls, and Jaskier can clearly feel his mouth and his throat vibrate, he is _so close_ to him. “Hush. No talks now.”

“Do you want me to shut up? Do you really think I am even _able_ to shut up now that I have what I desidered for, like, half my life? You are utterly dumb if you think that I will not sweet talk to you for the rest of my days, my dear.” he murmurs, because he has no breath left and it is so, so difficult to hold on to what little remains of his connection to reality. It won't be long since he will completely lost himself in pleasure. And he can't wait.

Geralt is still mouthing his skin, and he is probably leaving along the side of his neck an exquisite path made of lovebites that have the shape of his teeth. Now that they will finally be able to take their clothes off, Jaskier can't wait to have his whole body marked like this. He shoves his knee between Geralt's thighs and he can feel Geral's erection pushing against his breeches.

Jaskier can't stop himself and starts salivating. He licks his own lips, and it seems that Geralt saw him doing that, because he growls again, and bites harder on his shoulder, after he pulls the hems of his doublet to have more places to mark. Trembling a bit, and ignoring his own cock that's rubbing against Geralt's thick thigh, he clumsly takes off his doublet and throws it somewhere, uncaring where it lands. “Geralt, woah. Fuck, yes, Geralt, it hurts _so good._ ” he moans, when he feels Geralt's wet tongue lapping the throbbing bruise.

Geralt hums, and pushes a finger against his lips. Probably just to shut him up, but Jaskier feels a shiver of sheer pleasure running down his back at the gesture.

“Do you really want me to shut up?” he smiles, and kisses his thumb, still on his lower lip.

“I want you to _scream_ , Jaskier.” Geralt raises his head from the crook of his neck and rests his forehead on his, breathing deeply. “But I want to be the _only one_ to hear you.” he says, and his golden eyes are so close that Jaskier can see the possessiveness of those words shine into them.

“Then, then there is only one way to keep me quiet.”

He gives him a quick peck on his lips, leaves a tender caress on his cheek and, then, Jaskier drops on his knees.

Geralt groans, “Jaskier.”

“Yes?” he lick his lips again, while unties Geralt's breeches without much of an effort, thank Melitele. He feels his chemise – irrimediabily ruined, that brute couldn't just unbotton it, no, he had to _tear_ it to reach and bite him – sliding softly, showing his throbbing shoulder. He senses Geralt's eyes almost bore a hole on that.

“What are you doing.” he asks, through gritted teeth.

“I'm shutting up.”

Geralt groans again, louder. “Your _legs_.”

“I won't wait a fortnight to blow you, my dear heart of gold. Be just _very_ gentle with me later, I might even accept a massage on them with that clever fingers of yours, if you wish.” he holds back a delighted welp only the Gods know how, when he finally manages to free Geralt's cock. “Now, how about you shut my mouth with this– shit, Geralt, I really don't think I'm gonna be able to take all of it, I'm sincere. I am quite skilled, I won't deny it, but. So close it's even _bigger._ ”

“ _Jaskier._ ”

“Right. I shut up.”

Geralt's cock pops out of his breeches, standing big and proud and hard, curved flush against his belly, so close to his face that Jaskier can already feel his musky taste on his tongue. He doesn't care that Geralt has also just washed himself in a river this morning at sunrise, as he, rising his eyes to look at Geralt's face towering above him – _looking straight at him –,_ flicks out his tongue and give him a tentative lick. And yes, Gods, it's _good_. So fucking good. Jaskier wants _more._

He wasn't exaggerating when he said that probably he won't be able to engulf all of his length – unfortunately – but he thinks that he himself is quite good in what he does, expecially in sex and pleasure, so he starts to lick the swallowed veins on the underside of the erection, while a hand keeps the cock high enough to let Jaskier lick _all of it_ with a single lap. Geralt still has his teeth gritted, and no more that growls and grunts get out of that tighten mouth, sadly, but when Jaskier close his lips around the head of that wonderful cock, he also feels Geralt's gentle hand through his hair, without pulling, without pushing. It's just there, the sweetest confortable presence.

“You can fuck my mouth.” he says nonetheless, even if he is pretty sure that Geralt's won't do that, preferring to get used to Jaskier pace.

As he thought, Geralt just keeps on touching his hair, and nothing more.

Jaskier does indeed shut up after that, his mouth too preoccupied to give Geralt the best fucking blowjob he ever had – fuck Yennefer or whoever touched him before – and then, he sucks, hard, and Geralt jolts his hips, thankfully not too much or else Jaskier would have definitely choked. And no, no choking for now.

He moves his head as much as he can, he gulps when he feels the tip pushing against the back of his throat, then he leaves him, to take breath, uncaring about the amount of saliva that drops down his chin. Geralt's heated gaze never leaves his face, Jaskier can clearly feels it, and he really hopes that seeing his own cock going in and out of his mouth is as arousing as is for him that's doing that. And it is so erotic just thinking that the cock moving between his lips is indeed Geralt's, it's _Geralt's_ , for Melitele's sake.

Jaskier doesn't stop even when he feels his jaw going numb, doesn't slow down even when he can't move the tip of his tongue to push it into Geralt's cockhead slit anymore. He doesn't stop, _he can't stop_ , not now that he has him. He won't stop until he's got _everything_ Geralt could give him.

“Fuck.” Geralt swears, and his hips tremble under the effort to not move them. And when Geralt murmurs his name, slowly, softly, just a whisper in the bad light of that chamber, Jaskier knows that Geralt's is coming way before he even feels his orgasm explode inside his mouth.

And of fucking course, Jaskier gulps every drops of that sperm, and when he lets that cock slip out from his lips, he tries so hard to gather the bits he hadn't swallowed in time with his fingers, putting it again inside his mouth. Geralt tastes so good just because is _Geralt_ , it's bitter and a bit salty but still so, so good. It will never be enough.

Geralt still has his hand in his hair. Still has that molten gold gaze on him, on his face, on his bruised shoulder, on his swollen lips. He then too falls on his knees, cradles his face between his palms and, oh, and then kisses him so, so hard and so, so lovely sweet at the same time. Jaskier doesn't even care about his own erection throbbing inside his trousers, he just covers Geralt's hands with his and enjoys that ravenous kiss.

And then, as always, he so stupidly talks – and ruins _everything_. “I love you.” he whispers, then winces because– _shit_ , why the _hells and heavens_ does he have to always _talk_! “W–well, it was hardly a secret, wasn't it?” he laughs, nervously, and almost cries when Geralt's hands leaves his face. “Okay, right. I said the _L word._ The _scaaary_ L word. Still, it's hardly a secret. And I'm quiet sure that you love me too, even if you won't ever probably say that to me, but that's okay, it's fine, it is, it is _fine_.”

Geralt snorts. He gets up and ties his breeches, and Jaskier feels suddenly very lonely. “Why should I?” he – and he cannot fucking believe it – hears Geralt mutters under his breath.

Jaskier freezes. He feels like drenched in cold water in an instant, utterly shocked. “What? What did you say?”

He thought that, well, that Geralt may get scared of his feelings – he knows how he is, he knows and it's okay if he will _never_ say that he loves him, because his gestures and his actions and his adorable jealousy say enough, they really do – but he never, _never_ could have thought that... that–

Geralt closes his eyes, tightens his lips and turns with his back at Jaskier. “I did not... mean it.”

“What did you mean then?” he asks, his voice so thin that he's scared it might break if he dares to talk louder.

Geralt doesn't answer. He doesn't even turns to look at him.

“Geralt. _Geralt_ , I... need you to talk now. I need you to explain because I want so much to believe that you didn't mean that, but...” he swallows, “But I need you to talk to me. Or else I... I will start to not believe you.”

Even with his back on him, Jaskier can see Geralt take a deep breath. And probably he smells something horrible in his scent, damn his super witchery powers, because he finally turns around and gazes at him with a so painful constipated expression that Jaskier would have laugh of, if he does not feel like shit at the moment.

“Geralt, _please._ ” he begs.

“You...” he coughs, as if there is something nagging in his throat, “You... _you._ You are _you._ ”

“I gathered that. Doesn't explain anything though.”

His nostril flares, his brows furrow painfully, his lips are tight. Jaskier knows him so well that he can understand any itch, any struggle, any unexpressed word just looking at the smallest change in his face. And yes, rationally Jaskier can tell that Geralt doesn't really mean what he actually said, and in his so fucked up way he _loves_ him, he's not stupid thank you very much, he can planly feel the care Geralt has for him. But then again, he never reacts well at heartbreaks, expecially heartbreaks from Geralt.

“You know what I mean. You never– you never had or wanted nothing serious. Why should I, then?” Geralt stops himself, grits his teeth, “Fuck. No, no, I don't mean it like _that._ ”

Jaskier says nothing. He just stays there, on the floor near the door, arousal completely disappeared and the bitter savour of Geralt still lingers on his tongue. That makes him even more sad, somehow.

“You will leave me, too.” he splurts, then grimaces as if it was seriously painful saying that.

“I don't seem to have ever done it in these more than twenty bloody years where I kept on running behind you, hoping you would just turn the fuck around and actually look _at me._ ” he scrambles to get up, uncaring of his numb knees and his torn chemise. He points a finger on him, while yelling: “I may be a bit of a whore, I grant you that. And yes, I never cared much for the occasional fucks I had in taverns and brothels, but I tell you one thing, Geralt, _one_ :” he inhales, shaken, “everytime I _loved_ someone, _they_ always broke my heart. I never left them, they _left me._ But you... I've been in love with you _half my life_ , Geralt, you can't compare yourself to them! It's always been you, even when I was extremely sure you would never, _never_ think of me anything more than an annoying and noisy nuisance.”

“You never been that, Jaskier.” he murmurs, softly.

“Yeah, I know that now. Then, I wasn't sure.” he raises a hand to pull back his hair from his eyes – he blames the locks for the wetness in them – then sighs, sadly. “Between us, I should be the one scared that one day you would leave me, because I know myself, I know my own flaws, I know I can be... too much, most of the time. But I'm not scared, because I trust you.”

“But– but why?”

Jaskier blinks, “Why I trust you? Well, for once, you saved my life _pleeeenty_ of times–”

“ _No._ ” his inhales rattles, while he sits on the rotten bed. The orange light of the sunset comes hin throught a rounded window, shines upon a very large amount of golden things and weapons on the floor around them. There is a little table completely covered in parchments and such – and usually Jaskier would be very curious and would have read every one of the documents, but not now. Now, his attention is solely on Geralt, on his poor, distraught Witcher that looks at him with a so sorrowful expression that Jaskier almost breaks down on his feet to hug and kiss him. Almost. “Why you love me? _How_ could you–”

“Oh oh, no no _no._ I'm not having this conversation.” he interrupts him, both his hands on his waist. “Is this utterly idiotic thing what all is this about? You are done yelling around that Witchers do not feel and _blah blah_ , and now you start to splutter that shit about you don't deserving to be loved?”

Geralt wrinkles his nose, “I just... don't understand. I'm nothing special, I am always covered in guts and I smell and I have this... ugly, rough body. You can have anybody. You can even have a _Siren_ , if you wish to live in the sea.”

“But I don't want to live in the sea, or marry a Siren or anybody else. All I want is you.”

Geralt shakes his head, putting it in his palms, elbows pointed on his knees. Jaskier hates to see him so distressed, but what is he supposed to say? He can't fucking read his mind, for Melitele's sake!

So he starts rumbling, because it's what he always do when he is nervous – and the Witcher isn't the only one who's distressed, thank you very much! “I don't know what you want from me, Geralt. All I know is that I want you even when you smell of Selkiemore's intestine or _worse_ , I want you even when you drink that awful potion and your eyes become pitch black, I want you even when you threaten some poor pirate just because he was looking at my arse – yes, I saw you there on the deck so do not even try to deny it! I love you because you are caring, and kind, and sweet and gentle, not just to me or to Ciri or to Yennefer or to your brothers, but also to a starving farmer that cannot pay you enough for getting rid of whatever the Gods sent him to ruin his harvest, or to small children that are not afraid of you yet and want to play with Roach, or don't let me talk about how adorable you are when you sweet talk to _Roach_ because I will not be able to stop once I start. You do not quite acknowledge that wonderful part of you, too busy thinking about your almost non–existent flaws, but I do.”

Geralt is looking at him with his lips slightly parted, his eyes wide as never before. He has still his hands in his hair, tugging at the white strands. He doesn't say anything, he doesn't even grunts. Jaskier likes to believe that he surprised him, that he shocked him with his confused list of things he loves about him – and he did not even talk about the physical part of them!

“Don't cry, Jaskier.” he says, at last, almost dazed.

“I'm not crying!”

But still, he won't feel good at his stupor. Because he _shouldn't_ feel like that.

Not when Jaskier spent twenty years and more on proving him every time he could how much a sweet and darling man he is.

“But I guess I won't change your mind, no matter how much I talk.” he whispers, with a sigh. He almost gives in and throws himself at him – to forget everything and make love to him all night long – but he does not complies. “So... so I guess you will never love me.”

Geralt jolts at that, “What?” he snals.

“Not the way you want to. Not the way... I deserve to be loved. You, my dear heart, need to learn to love yourself first. You cannot, uh, boundlessly love someone, no matter how much you think you care for them, if you hate yourself so much.”

Geralt gets up, “Jaskier.” he says his name in a strangled voice.

“So, until then, Geralt... I just have to wait. As I always did.” and it hurts so much to say that, but it is a thing Jaskier needs to do. For Geralt, because Geralt deserves the world, and whatever it takes Geralt has to understand it.

“ _Jaskier._ ”

“I think I need fresh air now.” he says, softly and, yeah, still heartbroken. “Excuse me.”

He doesn't look at Geralt, as he turns and opens the door. Geralt does not run after him.

As pathetic as all this situation already is, Jaskier indeed cries, when he is away enough from Geralt's super–powered witchery ears. Not that he can go too far, with them being inside a ship in the middle of the vast ocean, but he finds himself a little place near the bow of the ship – right beside the statue of the Siren that so much resembles his grandmother – and cries his heart out.

He is not really _sad_ , per se. Maybe a bit heartbroken, and disillusioned. After all, since that morning passed kissing in the water, he was pretty sure they were fine. That they were alright. That Geralt was alright. But, of course, Jaskier will always be the same, stupid selfish dreamer – and he feels so guilty, now, to not have understood sooner what Geralt was thinking, more so to not have thought about his idiotic convintions about not being able to love or be loved. Jaskier just thought, maybe too presumptuously, that with him Geralt would have been different. Hells, it's been _twenty years_ , he could not have been more obvious than that!

But that sweet oaf will always be the same, too blind to see how precious he is. And... shit, has he been too harsh on him? He indeed needed that bit of fresh air, it wasn't even an excuse – not completely – but maybe he should not have left Geralt alone.

“Fuck.” he sniffs, and passes a hem of his chemise on his wet eyes. “Shit, fuck, _cock–_ ”

He leans on the statue, that now he notice is plain gold. He isn't really scared of falling into the ocean – well, in all honesty he would gladly just jump into the water and swim and swim until all the hurt dissolves, but then again, after would be extreamly difficult to get back on the ship. So, no midnight swim. Well, not that it is the middle of the night, he still can see the sun disappearing on the horizon, but whatever.

He raises a hand until his fingertips touch, almost reverently, the statue's outline. It really resembles her, Jaskier cannot get it wrong: he has her sweet face bored in his eyes, being her the only one of his family that actually treated him with love and not disdain and disappoinment. It's been so long, but he remember her so clearly nonetheless.

“ _Oh là là_ , baaard!”

Shit, he almost wished that voice was Geralt's.

Sighing, Jaskier turns to see the blonde pirate – Ulrich or something. Whatever, in an ipothetical ballad, he would definitely be Ulrich – coming near him, with a bottle in one hand and a knife in the other. Jaskier is not impressed, nor scared: the poor lad can't even walk straight, being too much inebrieted, and, alas, if things start to get dangerous, a yell and Geralt will come running, his personal knight in shining armor.

Fuck, he wants him. Probably he'll just go back into their cabin, when his eyes stop to sting.

Wait– wasn't Ulrich the person in charge of the wheel of the ship?

After just three steps, poor Ulrich stumbles on the floor, and passes out. Jaskier snorts; well, that was patethic. More than Jaskier's ever been!

Behind Ulrich, the bawdy bald pirate – in his ballad, his name is Markuz – bursts out laughting and, probably taking pity of his fellow, helps him stands. He glances at Jaskier, still seated crying on the sill next to the statue. “Sorry for him, boy!”

He sniffs, “No hard feelings. Won't you try what he wanted to do in his stead?”

“Naaah, dun' wanna get the Witcher angry.”

“Right.” something swells in Jaskier's chest, knowing that he is _untouchable_ because he is Geralt's. Well, he still is, even after their tragic argument.

“And I like you, boy!” Markuz grins, with the unconscious body on one shoulder, “Take care of little Sissy there.”

Jaskier frowns, “Sissy?”

“Well, I wanted to call her Pussy, but cap said it was too much. So, Sissy the Siren!” with a finger, the pirate indicates the statue beside him, “She watches over us all, pretty Sissy. I tell you a secret, boy: she is a very real Siren!”

“Oh, fun, a real Siren.” Jaskier laughs, a bit unconfortable. So, does that means that the statue is _really_ his grandmother? Is she cursed? Fuck, are all his family cursed? At this point, he wonders. “But how? It's a statue.”

“This I dunno.” Markuz shrugs, “Maybe she just look like a very living Siren out there, or maybe there is one inside. Dunno, dun' care. Cap's problem.” he hiccups, then burps. After that he laughs loudly again, as if it is so much fun to burp into his fellow's face. Charming. “But _shhhh_ it's a secret, boy. That's why I didn't tell anythin' before!”

After those words, well, shit happens.

Jaskier hears a crack, then more cracks. He turns and looks at the statue, that, in an instant, it breaks in a thousand pieces and falls dramatically into the ocean. Leaning on the sill, Jaskier clearly sees the golden pieces sinking into the water, until they disappear. “What the fuck.” he exclaims.

At the same time, the pirate yells: “Bard! What did you do?!”

“Me? Nothing!” he says, and panic overwhelms him. Shit, he needs to go to Geralt, _now._

Markuz swears, lets Ulrich fall again on the floor and screams. “Aleksei, we go back now! Turn back, turn back! Sissy broke, no more protection!”

Aleksei, hands on the wheel, paled.

Suddenly, a big– shit, is it a tentacle? A big fat fucking _tentacle_ appears, raising from the cold waters around them, splashing everywhere. Jaskier is completely drenched in a second, his chemise clenching on his shoulders like a second skin, and he distractely thinks that oh, maybe he is transforming? But no, he isn't in the water yet! He feels a bit of a itch under the skin of his legs, and the sides of his neck, but nothing else. Then another one on those fucking monstruosity, from the opposite direction, raises and both crash against the ship, breaking it in two right in the middle.

And Jaskier doesn't even have the time to panic, or to be scared, or to _fucking go to Geralt_ , that, losing balance, he falls into the sea.

It hurts as every fucking time, when his legs just stick together and scales appear with finns and wings attached. The gills are the most painful thing, his skin _tears_ and suddenly he breathes from his neck, and it is as a strange feeling as the first time. Thanking all the Gods above him, his ears gets pointy with nothing more than an annoying tingle.

He swears, when he sees his teared trousers floating towards the surface. Hell, he really liked his yellow suit, it reminded him of Geralt's eye colour.

He looks around, still immersed in the cold water, the current flowing through his hair. His heart loses a beat, when he sees the ruins of the ship floating or sinking the same, and, fuck, he sees them too, he doesn't know how many but surely they are _a lot_ , a lot of Sirens just swimming placidly, murmuring a wordless melody. They do not care about him, they just grab whatever catches their attention. Jaskier wants to scream and _obliterate_ all of them, when he sees two Sirens taking into the depths of the ocean a male body. When he recognizes poor Ulrich, Jaskier doesn't have time to feel bad or guilty, he is just too relieved he is not Geralt.

And yeah, he definitely needs to find him, or else he'll go crazy.

He pays no attention to the other Sirens – unless he doesn't see a white–headed with them, that is – he just goes where he surely will find a Witcher when there is a monster to slaughter. He swims as if he has the Devil himself on the heels, he swims until he reaches what remains of the black ship and he hears him even before he sees him: Geralt is too busy fighting against that giant – oh shit, yep, it is the octopus! But fucking hell, it doesn't resemble his drawing _at all_ , it's so monstruos and it is just a mass of tentacles and _teeth_ , oh Gods, a very dangerous and deadly pointy teeth and they are so close to Geralt that just a little bit of distraction from his part and one limb, _puff_ , eaten forevermore!

Geralt is slow, too slow in the water. His armor probably weighs too much, he needs to move his legs and his arms to not sink and at the same time he has to fight that scary octopus and – fuck, he needs to _breathe_ , he needs to breathe and he is not able to into the fucking water!

Jaskier does the only sensible thing it comes to his too panicked mind.

He swims until he reaches Geralt's back, he hugs him, touches his lovely stubble and turns his face toward his, he stares right into his starry golden eyes, reddened from the sting of the salty water. Then he kisses him.

And _breathes into_ him.

He can plainly feel Geralt's lungs expanding, having his hands on his chest. He wishes he could still stare into his eyes, and kiss him again and again, begging for forgiveness because he is a selfish man, always been, and he didn't think about his feelings, and because he has been way to harsh on him, too busy wallowing in his own heartbreak to think about _his_. But, well, it doesn't seem the right time now.

Geralt growls, and raises the hand with his fingers clenched on the hilt of his silver sword. But curiousily the octopus isn't lashing at them, he stands still, with his mouth of whatever it is wide open and with his teeth bared. It is not attacking.

Still, Geralt, without leaving him, holding him tight against his side – and yes, it is distracting having Geralt's touch on him, on his lower back where his skin becomes scaley, it is distracting having Geralt's wet body flushing against his, memory of that wonderful morning of not so many days ago, and, _yes_ , it is _very_ distracting seeing Geralt slither his sword in the monster's mouth and slash him without hesitations.

Jaskier just kisses him again, breathes into him again, while the horrid octopus dies an anticlimactic death. Well, that was fast – _thankfully._

Geralt, quickly, before the corpse sinks into the depths, removes one tooth from its stilled mouth, and blood starts pouring all around them. Swimming through the blood of that thing isn't what Jaskier desires, so he tugs Geralt until they, together, break the surface. Geralt breathes heavely, muttering something like: “That was a fucking _Kraken_.”but Jaskier doesn't have the slightest intention on letting him go.

“Oh, Geralt.” he says his name, he touches his face, he gives little pecks to that wet mouth. “Shit, fuck, Geralt, fuck, I was so scared, I was there into the water, and I didn't know where were you, and did I already tell you that I was scared? Yes, yes, I was _terrorized_ when I saw the Sirens take the pirates with them, for a second I thought they were you and, oh my Gods, Geralt.” he hugs him, then, so tight that if only he has half Geralt's muscles he would have strangled him. He tucks his face in Geralt's neck and says, with a choked voice: “I almost lost you.”

Geralt takes a whole minute to answer him, “You haven't. Lost me, I mean. Are you fine?”

“Are you?” Jaskier raises from his neck, and look at him. Geralt seems to be paler than before, his hair are loose and stick to his face. For what he can see, there is no worrisome or flesh wounds, “If you are, I am too.”

“What the fuck does that even mean.” he laughs, breathlessly, connecting his forehead with his.

Jaskier lets their noses touch, and it is a so sweet gesture that if he still had his legs, they would tremble. His heart swells in his chest, and he is pretty sure that Geralt can clearly hear its loud beats. “I don't know, I guess I am a bit in shock. I would say I am really relieved, though.”

Geralt's catlike eyes are so, so bright, still a bit reddened. Jaskier can't help but swallow his uneasiness, feeling it dropping into his stomach, and blurts out: “I'm so sorry, my love.”

Geralt's brows frowns, “For what?”

“Well, the list is very long.” he sighs, and he tries to tangle his tail around Geralt's legs, just because he wants to. “For once, I guess it's my fault we were in the very same ship that, at the moment, is sinking into the obscure depths of the ocean in the first place. Then, well, before all this happened–”

“Later.” Geralt interrupts him, caressing his hair, tucking the wet strands behind his ear, “Later you can beg for forgiveness all you want. On land.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I totally agree with you. On land, yes. Shall we go?” he rumbles, but he still doesn't move. He looks around again, and all he sees are the broken black wooden pieces of what remains of the ship and the endless expanse of the sea. The flag with the ugly skull floats sadly a few meters from them. The sun is completely set, and the night surrounds them like a silent and confortable coat. “How... how long can you stay underwater?” he asks, in the end.

“Hm, five minutes?”

Jaskier splutters, “That's way too long, and you know that!”

Geralt rolls his eyes, “Fine. Three.”

“Okay, two. Every two minutes, and maybe even less, we go back to the surface, alright?” Geralt just hums, and he seems so confused that his blinking and his thoughful expression is adorable. “Good. Now, darling, hold your breath. I will swim as fast as I can, just hold on to me.”

Geralt's face darkens, “What.”

Now is Jaskier the confused one. “What?”

“Your legs will hurt.”

“Then,” Jaskier feels his throat tighten with the affection he has towards this oh so gentle oaf, “I expect a long and a very pleasurable massage, when we reach land. You still owe me one!”

Geralt huffs a laugh again, “Fine.”

And, well, Jaskier kisses him hard and deep, but just because everytime Geralt laughs he makes his insides twitch in a very enjoyable way, and because, yes, they are fine, they are still alive, and he loves him so much he wants to scream it to the whole world.

❁

They finally reach land half an hour later, and only the Gods know why no Siren and no monster attacked them while Jaskier swam through the sea current. Jaskier was fast, and stroves himself almost to his limits, so much that when Geralt feels the sand under his knees and fingers, it is his turn to drag him until they both find themselves panting, faces turned to the starry sky and backs stuck on the shore.

“Jaskier.” he calls him.

And immediately, Jaskier's beautiful face is in front of his, covering the sky but it doesn't matter. His eyes are blue and wide, they shine of unshed tears and stares at him adoringly; his hands cradle his face and both his thumbs caress his cheeks; his body and tail are flushed against his side and legs. “Geralt.” he says, breathlessly. He smiles, but it's a pained smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes – and Geralt would gladly punch himself knowing that it is all his fault. But he knows better, now. He knows what to do and what to say.

“Let me talk.” he says, then.

Jaskier still smiles, still looks at him fondly and in love, “Talk. I won't stop you, pinky promise.” but then, he sinks his face into his chest, and pants, “Sorry, not now, just... in a minute, just wait a minute, please.” he begs, voice trembling.

Jaskier hisses while he transforms back, and, putting his hand into Jaskier's wet mop of hair, now Geralt knows what to do. Now he knows he is worth to give him the comfort he so much craved to give, everytime he is hurt from his turning into his human body again. Now he knows that he _can_ hug him and kiss his temple, that he has the right because Jaskier gives it to him and wants him to. And so it does it, while Jaskier whimpers and trashes until he is naked and shaken but safe in his arms.

“Woah. It hurt less than expected.” Jaskier inhales, and he settles better against him. “Shit, I lost my pants somewhere in the sea again. And, ugh, I have sand in places that sand should never be. What a day, uh?”

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier hums, contently, “Yes, my dear?”

“There is no need for you to apology.” he says, without loosening the grip he has on him. Jaskier's breath stutters, “I want you to understand that I probably will never know how to love... to love myself. But I am sure I love _you_ , little lark. Don't... don't doubt that.”

Jaskier stays silent for a long time after his words. Geralt feels his frozen nose pushing where his jugular should be, and he probably could hear, like this, his usually too slow heart beats with a thundering noise. He should be embarassed about this, but he isn't. It's okay if it's Jaskier feeling it.

Finally, he hears Jaskier sniffs.

“Fuck, Jaskier, don't _cry._ ”

“I'm not crying!” and, like an overflowing river, Jaskier cries his heart out into his shoulder, but it's okay, because Geralt can sense as clear as the water under them that Jaskier is just pouring all his happiness into him.

And it is totally Geralt's right if he kisses his temple again and roams his hands around him to warm him up. So he does.

**Author's Note:**

> This, my dear friends, drained me as it did the first one. Do you know it's really, really difficult to write something you know nothing about? I know nothing about ships or pirate if not for the Pirates of Caribbaen (the song in this is also from the movie, yep).  
> Whatever, I think this will be a trilogy (lol) because I still have a lot to say, like: why the monsters didn't attack when Jaskier was around? Where are they now? Will they finally, finally fuck now that Geralt is sure that Jaskier has no intention to leave him? (spoiler, yes) And, more importantly, how long will it take before Jaskier realize that his oh so beloved lute sunk along with the ship? I will answer all this questions and more next episode! Dunno when, dunno why, dunno how, but I will.  
> Again, I know, sorry for the mistakes! ❁


End file.
